In Any Place In Time, You Are Mine
by NotAnAngel97
Summary: Illya thought this would be a simple job. The attractive stranger he just accidentally kidnapped proved him wrong. Napoleon thought this was just going to be another dull event. The gorgeous madman waving the gun about in the passenger seat of his car proved him wrong. This follows their blossoming relationship. Slash, rated M for safety. AU, Art Dealer!Napoleon.
1. Would It Really Kill You If We Kissed?

**So I'm alive! And posting in TMFU fandom for the first time, so be gentle. Title based on my favourite line in the song 'Drive.' by Halsey. So, this is an AU, will have smut. Don't like, don't read.**

 **Don't own, sadly. So yeah, enjoy, my fine furry friends.**

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Of all the things to have gone wrong on this mission, it was a goddamn Chihuahua that alerted the guards to the presence of an intruder. Illya wasn't sure if he could ever live it down; Gaby for one was going to make sure he would never forget this. Speaking of which, there was that ridiculously flashy car she insisted on using as their getaway car pulling out of the drive. Gravel crunched under the tires as the silver Aston Martin DB9 slowed to a halt.

Without delay, Illya sprinted across the manicured lawn. Tucked securely under his arm were the documents Waverly has sent him to recover. Behind him, guards shouted at him to stop. Luckily for Illya, they couldn't hope to catch up with his long strides. He yanked the passenger door open and flung the files onto the car floor. Hands free, he groped for the firearm holstered under his suede jacket. A few well-aimed shots later, his pursuers lay on the ground, their shouts reduced to pained moans.

Illya could feel the tension in his shoulders lessen slightly, but knew they were not in the clear yet. Folding his long legs into the sports car, he barked out the order to drive. He had already turned around again to close the door; his gun trained on the crumpled masses of the Vinciguerra's security team as he slammed the passenger door shut. The car leapt forward with a start, and with a wide swerve, sped out of the driveway and onto the winding country road.

With a sigh, Illya felt his body sink into the leather back in his seat as a wave of exhaustion swept over him. His eyes fluttered shut and he enjoyed a few slow breaths. Now all was left to do was deliver the files to their contact from U.N.C.L.E. and his work was done. Illya could feel himself falling into a calm state of relaxat-

'Would you mind terribly if I asked you to put away your firearm?' A cultured, somewhat uncertain, slightly amused and decidedly _male_ voice inquired. Illya's eyes snapped wide open and his grip on his gun tightened. Twisting his body so it was flattened against the passenger door, he trained his weapon on the man behind the steering wheel.

Dark, lustrous locks, smoothed back with gel. They looked slightly unruly, as if someone had run their fingers through them and mussed them. Intelligent blue eyes darted from Illya's face, to the barrel of the gun pointed at him, to the road and then back to his face again. Long elegant fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly, knuckles a ghostly pale. He was clearly dressed to impress, sporting a charcoal three-piece tailored to emphasize his tensed broad shoulders. A cornflower blue tie glimmered slightly, catching the barest flickers of light escaping the various controls on the dashboard. All-in-all, a handsome and slightly nervous man sat in the seat Illya had assumed Gaby would occupy. Stunned, all Illya could do was growl.

'Who the hell are you?'

So his mystery passenger was Russian, Napoleon mused. Yet another bit of the puzzle to play around with. You see, Napoleon had been minding his own business, looking quite forward to returning to his hotel suite, perhaps with the beautiful receptionist from the front desk. It had been a spectacularly dull evening socializing with the elite snobs even if they did pay him well. That all changed however, when a rather gorgeous madman had climbed into his car and rudely demanded he drive. His lack of manners was more than made up for by the firearm he was brandishing however, so Napoleon elected to comply.

That said, Napoleon couldn't help himself from bristling at the tone of his passenger. 'Now that I believe is my question. Considering this is my car and all.' The Russian bear was not amused. With a snarl, he pressed the barrel of the gun to Napoleon's head. Napoleon swallowed a snarky retort. Now was clearly not the time for his smart-ass comments.

'My name is Napoleon. Napoleon Solo.' The Russian snorted and prodded him with the gun. 'Obviously fake name, not to mention ridiculous.' Napoleon narrowed his eyes, but the Russian continued speaking. 'Your wallet. Give it to me. Slowly.' One hand stayed on the wheel and his eyes glued to the road while the other slipped inside his jacket. Gently, so not to startle the gun-wielding idiot beside him, he drew his wallet free and tossed it to his passenger.

The Russian bear snatched it up like a starving animal snatches food and began to rifle through it. All the while, his weapon remained glued to Napoleon's head. He tilted his head to the side, in an attempt to put a little distance between it and a bullet.

Studying the contents carefully, Illya couldn't help but chuckle. The other man grimaced.

'My mother was French and school was hard. Could we perhaps move past my ridiculous name and discuss why exactlyyou are currently sitting in my car?' Illya sobered up swiftly and prodded Napoleon once more with the gun. He did, however, put the safety on again.

'Fine, your name really is Napoleon. That doesn't answer my question. Who are you?' The man sighed dramatically and struck a thoughtful pose.

'Who are any of us really, in the grand scheme of things?' Illya snarled and curled his free hand around the throat of the infuriating American. He gave it a threatening squeeze, taking no small amount of pleasure from the gasping of the smaller man.

'Apparently not much of a philosopher, are we?' Napoleon coughed, 'I'm an art dealer from New York. I was invited by Victoria Vinciguerra to appraise her collection of Greek and Roman sculptures.'

Illya considered the man himself just as thoroughly as he considered his answer. His pulse had been racing, but that was to be expected. His breathing, while slightly laboured, hadn't spiked. He hadn't stuttered over any part of his story. His answer was detailed, but not too detailed as to be overthought. The Vinciguerras were known to be art enthusiasts.

'Why did you stop your car at the end of the driveway, or start driving when I got in?' Illya demanded. The other man snorted.

'And exactly how inclined would you have been to refuse the madman leaping into your car screaming drive while waving a gun?' Illya had to concede that the man had a point. 'As for why I was stopped, I tend to do that from time to time. You know, before I pull out onto a road. One of those pesky laws.'

Illya could hardly believe his bad luck. This was worse than the Chihuahua. Gaby would never let him forget The Time Illya Got Into The Wrong Getaway Car. Forget Gaby; Waverly was going to making snide remarks about this until the day he died. And then have his ghost do it. Illya almost wished he had gotten caught by those guards; it would have been far less humiliating.

Napoleon's passenger looked fairly shell-shocked. So perhaps Napoleon wasn't about die tonight. The gun pressed to his head dropped into the Russian's lap, while the hand wrapped around his throat fell away. In different circumstances, Napoleon might have found that disappointing. The Russian appeared to be every inch Napoleon's type, the whole kidnapping businessusines aside.

'Phone!' The Russian barked. 'Where is it?' Honestly, no manners whatsoever. Rummaging once more through his jacket, Napoleon passed over his sleek iPhone 6+. And if he muttered something along the lines of 'raised by wolves,' well, that was his business.

'The passcode is 3010.' Napoleon supplied helpfully, ignoring the baleful glare from his passenger, who had been struggling with the lock screen. Curious, Napoleon watched the man type in a number without pause. Who even remembered phone numbers off by heart anymore?

Attempting to ignore his driver, Illya wasted no time in calling Gaby. Better to get this over and done with. The phone rang twice before a harried German was answering.

'Здравствуйте?Габи, это я.' (Hello? Gaby, it's me.)

'Илью. Кто еще?' (Illya. Who else?)

'Где я? То есть ... сложная.' (Where am I? That's…complicated.)

Illya glanced at his companion, who was shaking his head softly, smirk spread wide across his face. 'That's one way to put it.' He mumbled. Illya's eyebrows rose in surprise. He spoke Russian? Sighing, he returned to his conversation. He may as well speak in English in that case. Gaby's Russian was far from perfect. It physically hurt him to listen to sometimes.

'I have the files, but there was complication when I was leaving. I was forced to find different method of escape. It's not important. Where do I meet our… friend?' It was obvious the American (Napoleon, Illya chuckled inwardly) was shamelessly listening in on his conversation with undisguised curiosity. The less he knew the better. For both of their sakes.

'Piazza Navona, tomorrow morning, 6AM. They will be dressed as a jogger and be wearing a red cap. After that, go straight to the safe-house. I will meet you there.' With that, Gaby was gone. Illya memorized these instructions and glanced at his father's watch. It was half past two. Plenty of time to spare. Illya lowered the window, and carelessly tossed away the phone.

'What the hell do you think you're doing?' Napoleon was seething. 'That was brand new. It has all my contacts for work.' His Russian friend had the nerve to simply smirk and tilt his seat back. Cleary making himself comfortable, he lazily brandished the gun still loosely held in his left hand.

'Here is what is about to happen. You are going to drive me into the city, to Piazza Navona. Do you know it?' Jaw tense, Napoleon nodded. This guy may be hot but he was an asshole. 'Good,' he continued, tone mocking. God, what Napoleon would give to wipe that smirk off his face. He took a deep breath, trying to remember what his yoga instructor had suggested to relieve stress. Of course, it wasn't his mouth Napoleon had been paying attention to at the time. So this guy was trying to piss off Napoleon. He chose the wrong car if he thought this was a game he would win.

'So, _Illya_ ,' Napoleon drawled, rolling around the foreign name around in his mouth. 'What is it exactly you do, you know, when you're not climbing into the wrong cars?' No response from his passenger, though he did release a small puff of exasperation.

'No, not feeling very chatty? Well, I for one simply can't stand silence in the car.' His hand drifted to the dashboard and static filled the car as he fiddled with the radio. A quick glance at his passenger showed a finger tapping against his thigh. Good, it looked like he was getting somewhere. Satisfied, he purposefully hit a pothole. The car jolted harshly and Napoleon swore he heard a growl.

'Ah, that's more like it,' Napoleon settled back into his seat. American pop music filled the car. He began to hum along to it, fingers tapping along to the catchy beat. Taking a sharp bend in the road, possibly faster than was safe, the car skidded, rocking its passengers.

His passenger's fists were clenched so tight, Napoleon was stunned he didn't hear bones grinding. 'Don't have a dirty mind, just be a classy guy,' he crooned, swerving violently to avoid a puddle. 'Buy me a ring, buy-buy me a ring.'

A large hand slammed onto the dashboard and cut the music. Napoleon smirked. Looks like he had won this particular game, and in record time. His Russian companion-Illya, Napoleon reminded himself- had irritation written across his face.

'Shut. Up.' He ordered, curling his hand into a fist. 'And how did you know my name?' He cracked one eye open and glared suspiciously at Napoleon. Napoleon simply raised an eyebrow at this attempt at threatening.

'You told me.' The duh was obvious in his tone.

'No I didn't.' Illya retorted, bristling. He had most definitely not shared anything with his companion, and he didn't appreciate his tone.

'You _kinda_ did,' the man replied. 'When you were talking to your friend, you said "It's me. Illya."' Illya flushed slightly, remembering now. He had felt safe using his own name, not knowing yet the other man, Napoleon, apparently spoke Russian. He felt a pleasant heat pooling in his stomach at the way Napoleon rolled his name around his mouth, almost as if he was tasting it. Illya wanted to taste him-

WHAT! Illya's mind froze. No, this man was a distraction, an irritation! A gorgeous irritation, but annoying nonetheless. The mission! Yes, think about the mission. In fact, this man worked for the Vinciguerras. Perhaps he could prove useful. The Vinciguerras were funding the terrorist organisation T.H.R.U.S.H. Of that, Waverly was adamant. But there was no obvious paper trail, nothing concrete to tie them together. Perhaps they were moving funds through art.

'You mentioned you are employed by Victoria Vinciguerra. For how long?' Illya demanded. Napoleon considered his answer for a moment.

'Hmm, let me see. Ah yes, her assistant contacted my office in New York about a month, looking for an appraisal on a collection of Bernini pieces. It contained some exquisite pieces, including a personal favourite of mine, the Martyrdom of Saint Laurence.'

'So you come all the way to Italy to value some art. Surely you could have done this from New York?'

'What can I say? I have a weakness for Bernini and the weather here is considerably better. Not to mention the food. This is something of a holiday for me.' He threw Illya a wry smile. 'At least, that _was_ the plan.'

Napoleon continued to discuss the art business, explain the practices for buying and selling pieces discreetly and Illya was able to build a clear picture in his mind of how the Vinciguerras were able to fund T.H.R.U.S.H. without leaving any evidence. The type of evidence that U.N.C.L.E. would be looking for anyway. It would appear Illya's unhappy accident was actually quite fortunate. Napoleon was a mine of information. And if Illya found the sound of his voice soothing, well that was his business.

Glancing at his companion, Napoleon was pleased to see him appear more relaxed. Evidently, stressed people waving guns around him stressed Napoleon out. It had absolutely nothing to do with how he was far more attractive when he didn't have a permanent scowl on his face. He was clearly more than just a pretty face too, showing a great deal of interest and asking intelligent questions. Napoleon loved his work, so if he was gushing a small bit from the pleasure of having such an attentive audience, well, who could blame him? Talk quickly drifted from the Vinciguerras and their illegal dealings to other various anecdotes.

'So I told him that the only way that was a genuine Jan van Eyck was if it was done by his ghost, considering it was painted two hundred years after he died.' Illya sniggered, a cute sound that made Napoleon smile grow wider. 'There are no words to describe his face when he realised he had paid twice the value at auction for a forgery!'

Pulling into a deserted car park, Napoleon cut the engine and turned expectedly to his companion. The night sky had given way to the barest hint of dawn. The only sound was the gentle plash of water from the fountain in the centre of the square across the road. La Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi, if Napoleon recalled correctly, The Fountain of Four Rivers. Ironic, really. His adventure in Italy had started because of Bernini. Only fitting they end with him too.

Illya found himself rather taken aback when Napoleon had stopped the car. The American was an engaging story-teller, weaving tales that had Illya laughing harder than he had laughed in a long time. He had genuinely enjoyed himself. Which is why he was stunned to realise they had already reached their destination.

He checked his watch, squinting at the hands in the morning light. It was just after four-thirty. He had an hour and a half before he had to meet his contact. It would only take him a few minutes to walk to the drop site. So now what to do to kill time? He eyed Napoleon speculatively. He was not unaware of the appreciative glances the man had thrown him from time to time. Perhaps they could figure out a way to make the time pass together.

Napoleon recognized that look the moment Illya came to a decision. The look that screamed 'I've had a fantastic idea and it involves getting out of these clothes right now.' Napoleon wasn't about to argue. He grabbed Illya by the lapels of his jacket and yanked him forward. Their lips crashed together . Their lips crashed together, in a brutal display of passion, their tongues warring for dominance. Eager to get closer, Napoleon twisted his body so that he was kneeling on his seat. The leather seat squeaked as he shifted. His teeth nibbled at Illya's lower lip, swallowing his low moan. The sound went straight to Napoleon's groin, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His trousers suddenly felt far too tight.

Breathless, Illya began to draw away, only for Napoleon's lips to hungrily chase after him. One hand untangled itself from his jacket and yanked down his turtleneck. He latched on to the gorgeous pale skin of his throat, nipping and suckling until Illya was moaning with desperation. Napoleon grinned smugly as he pulled away to admire the red blotches decorated the Russian's neck.

Illya caught the self-satisfied smirk on his companion and narrowed his eyes. So the American thought he was winning because he had gotten Illya a little flustered. Big mistake. One hand went down to grope Napoleon's firm ass, the other wrapped around his chest. With a tug, Napoleon found himself being picked up.

He let out an indignant grunt at being handled, one that made Illya give a low chuckle. He settled his companion on his lap, knees on either side of Illya's, chests pressed together. It was a tight fit, and Napoleon cursed as his head banged off the roof of the car. Illya curled a hand around the nape of his neck and drew his mouth back down. Their lips pressed together, slower this time. More sensual. Napoleon playfully suckled at his tongue and Illya thought he was going to come from that alone. The hand curled around Napoleon's neck became a fist in his hair, tugging at the luscious curls.

Napoleon let out an embarrassingly desperate moan when he felt Illya's hand drift up to his hair. He had a major hair-pulling kink and his rock-hard cock knew all about it. Napoleon needed to touch himself _right now_. His hands pulled at his belt with hurried but smooth movements until it slid free. Barely taking the time to unbutton his trousers, he yanked both them and his boxers down and over the swell of his ass. His cock bounced against his stomach, finally free. It was glistening with pre-cum and impressively hard. Illya hummed appreciatively against his lips as he pulled away.

'Маленькая шлюха (Little whore). Look how hard you are for me.' Illya said, his voice low and throaty. 'You need me to fuck you, don't you, Сука (Bitch)?' Napoleon groaned, the sound hoarse and pleading to his own ears.

'Ваша сука (Your bitch.)' He mumbled shamelessly, hands pawing at Illya's trousers. 'Fuck me, please Illya. I need you, please!' He pleaded. Illya eyed him contemplatively for a moment, before ducking his head.

'Since you asked so nicely,' he whispered into Napoleon's ear, nibbling at the lobe. Napoleon sighed, the relief evident on his face. Twisting an arm behind him, he began to blindly root through the glove compartment. Illya took this opportunity to unbutton his own trousers. One hand settled on Napoleon's hip to hold him steady as the other worked his pants and briefs down over his ass. The car was not the ideal place to do this, especially for large men their size, but beggars couldn't be choosers. His own cock free, Illya began to stroke it to full hardness. A glance at Napoleon's stunned face made his smirk grow wider.

'Still so certain you want me to fuck you, тигр?' (Tiger)

Napoleon nodded, eyes trained on Illya's cock. Safe to say, it was in proportion with the rest of the Russian giant. His hand searched a little more desperately in the glove compartment, looking for-

'Aha!' Napoleon declared, retrieving a bottle of lube. Hmmm, he might need to replace it soon. Illya plucked it from his fingers, studying the label. He raised an eyebrow.

'Do this sort of thing often?'

'I'm like a Boy Scout. Always like to be prepared.' Illya popped the lid open and squirted a generous amount onto his hand. Tracing his fingers around the pucker of Napoleon's ass, his lips split into a wicked grin.

'You are most definitely not Boy Scout.' With that, he eased a single finger into his ass. Napoleon bit his lip slightly at the burn. It had been a while since he had been on this end of things and his body rebelled against the intrusion. With a deep breath, he willed his body to relax. Illya was gentle, taking his time to slowly add a second finger, then a third.

'Look how much you need this. Your hole is so greedy, needing to be filled,' He teased, crooking his fingers just so. Napoleon thought he was going to cry at the wave of pleasure that swept over him. He threw his head back and howled.

'For the love of God, fuck me already Illya,' he demanded breathlessly, batting at Illya's wrist weakly. How was he still so in control? Napoleon was a mess, hair in disarray, panting heavily while sweat dripped down his neck. He had long since shucked his jacket and vest on to the floor, unbuttoned his shirt and tossed his tie god knows where. His pants and boxers were draped across the steering wheel, while his shoes and socks were thrown on to the floor of the driver's side. Illya, in spite of his cock standing proudly erect and a few bite marks along his jaw and neck, looked entirely calm and collected.

'If you insist.' Illya pulled his fingers free with a pop. Napoleon's left leg was pulled up and over Illya's shoulder, his right splayed out to the side. Illya took a moment to appreciate Napoleon's flexibility. He grabbed Napoleon's hips to steady him.

'You will not come until I let you.' Illya ordered him. 'Are you ready to ride me, ковбой?' He took the delicious groan Napoleon gave as an answer. Lifting him by the waist, he settled him down slowly on his cock, easing him down. Napoleon was mewling beautifully, head tossed back as bit by bit, he took all of Illya.

'Now it's up to you ковбой.' Illya's teeth nipped at Napoleon's jaw, drawing breath-taking gasps. 'Time to _ride_.'

And he did. Wonderfully. Wrapping his arms behind Illya's neck, Napoleon rode him. Using Illya's shoulders for leverage, he pulled himself up and slammed back down over. It was fast, and it was messy and he didn't care. Illya's cock filled him up so full that it made sure he always hit that sweet spot. Napoleon was seeing stars.

'Could you come like this, I wonder?' Illya was breathless, watching the incredible sight of Napoleon fucking himself on his cock. 'Untouched, just from my cock? It doesn't look like it would take much,' he mused, flicking the tip of Napoleon's weeping length. It slapped against Napoleon's bared stomach. Napoleon retaliated, biting down on his throat and drawing blood. Illya yelped, losing his calm collected facade for a moment. He stared at Napoleon's cheeky grin with disbelief for a moment. Then his own mouth stretched into a wide smirk.

'You should not have done that,' he warned playfully. Grasping Napoleon's hips, he began to fuck him. Hard. Thrusting in time with Napoleon, he brought himself closer to the edge, slamming into Napoleon's tight ass over and over. Napoleon was nearly faint, hands tightening in Illya's hair as he fought the need to come. Illya was dragging it out, making Napoleon almost cry.

'Oh God- Illya- need to- need to come- _Please_!' Napoleon was begging shamelessly now. Illya decided to have mercy on him. Thrusting even harder, he brought his mouth to Napoleon's lips.

'Come for me, Napoleon,' he murmured, capturing those plump, kiss-swollen lips in a deep kiss. Napoleon literally melted for him. With a strangled yell, his cock spurted, coating him and Illya with his come. A few more thrusts and Illya was joining him, nearly howling as he filled Napoleon, claimed him, made him _his_.

The two sat in silence for a while, each attempting to catch their breath. Napoleon was collapsed against Illya's chest, Illya's large hands gently cradling him. He felt like purring with contentment as his fingers gently traced patterns into his clammy skin. Napoleon gazed ruefully at the mess he had made and blew out a satisfied sigh.

'I don't think I've come so hard since I was a teenager.' He admitted. Illya felt himself warm with pride. Napoleon squirmed in his lap, folding his long leg back down and throwing himself back on to the driver's seat. He was a delicious mess, draped against the door, his naked legs akimbo. His bare chest was coated in his own sticky drying come. Napoleon was grimacing.

'Be a lamb, Illya, and fetch the wipes from the glove compartment,' he requested. Illya rolled his eyes. Of course he carried wipes in his car. As he was in such a good mood, still riding the post-orgasm haze, he elected to ignore the pet name and do as he was bid. He grabbed a few for himself, before tossing the packet to Napoleon.

'Спасибо (Thank you).' Napoleon replied mindlessly, wiping at the white spurts staining his chest. Illya patted himself down, cleaning the come off his jacket and turtleneck. Twisting awkwardly, he worked his trousers back up over his hips. It looks like Napoleon had the same idea as he began to root around for his clothes.

Too exhausted to do much, Napoleon just pulled his boxers on. He was too lazy to even button up his shirt. He observed Illya checked the time on his watch and was stunned to see the sun already peeking up over the horizon. It's golden hues flooded the morning sky. Illya looked, dared he say, disappointed.

'Time to go?' Napoleon understood that this, whatever this was, was sadly coming to an end. It was a shame. Despite their rocky beginning, he had become rather take with the Russian. The man was a fantastic lover, not to mention intelligent with his own unique sense of humour that Napoleon rather liked. Illya nodded, eyes distracted.

'Well, I guess this is goodbye.' Illya's jaw was tense. Looks like Napoleon wasn't the only one to be saddened to be saying farewell. He wasn't sure if it was his own desire to see the Russian again, or the kicked puppy eyes he was giving him, but Napoleon found his mouth opening again.

'You know, if you're ever in New York, you could always look me up.' Illya's eyes lit up for a moment, before settling his face into one of indifference.

'You should be more careful, ковбой.' He warned, his growing smirk betraying the playful teasing. 'I just might do this.' Napoleon found himself closing the distance between their lips once more.

'Good.' He whispered, before capturing Illya's mouth in a bruising kiss. Illya's hand went to cup Napoleon's neck as he sought to commit the taste of Napoleon to memory. The other pushed against Napoleon's chest gently, separating the two of them.

'I must go. I am sorry.' He really was. Illya would have given anything to stay there, but he had a mission to complete. He gathered the files, which had been scattered across the floor of the car. Rising back up, he pressed a single chaste kiss to the corner of Napoleon's disappointed frown. His American really was quite adorable when he pouted.

'New York.' He promised, before forcing himself to open the door of the car. The morning breeze swept into the car, swirling up the musky aroma of sex. He steeled himself to climb out of the car without looking back. If he did, Illya wasn't sure he could make himself leave. Shutting the car door shut behind him, he began to stride towards the fountain in the centre of the piazza across the road. His eyes strained in the early morning light, mind already switching back to the mission at hand. Behind him, he heard to faint rev of an engine, more like a soft purring than any car Illya had heard before. He let himself glance back. Just one look, he promised himself.

Napoleon's playful blue eyes locked onto his. He raised two fingers to his forehead in a mock salute and mouthed something at him. Two words. New York. Reversing out of the car park, he sped away into the early Italian dawn. Illya found himself grinning widely, as he turned to meet the woman pretending to stretch nearby.

'Till then, ковбой.'

 **Epilogue**

Three weeks later, Napoleon was working from his home office. Well, trying to. The Vinciguerras had been arrested a couple weeks ago, all their assets seized by the Italian government. Napoleon had gotten a call, asking him to provide an appraisal on their entire collection. Apparently he had come highly recommended. It was an impressive collection in its entirety, and that meant an impressive fee for Napoleon. And yet he couldn't help but become distracted every time he sat down to work. Instead of the marbled physique of the sculptures, he saw the ripple of toned flesh. It was infuriating. Illya had worked himself into the very core of Napoleon's being and he couldn't get him out of his mind.

Sighing, he twirled his chair around to face the floor length windows that lined one wall of his office. They offered a spectacular view of the sprawling Manhattan at night. The dark sky was lit up by the ever-present lights of the city. Maybe he just call it a day, he mused. The Met was hosting some rare Van Gogh pieces on loan from Musée d'Orsay.

So deep in thought was he, he was startled when a pair of hands settled on his shoulders. He tried to jump up, but the hands pushed down, keeping him seated. A pair of lips ghosted by his ear. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and Napoleon found himself shivering with pleasure.

'That invitation still stand?' Oh, God, that _voice_. That voice had featured prominently in Napoleon's fantasies lately. He continued to stare out the window, pretending to consider his answer.

'Hmmm, well now that depends,' he said, looking up at Illya's face hovering over him. Illya's eyes grew smouldering as one hand curled loosely around Napoleon's throat. He lowered his head until their breath was mingling, lips almost touching.

'Oh really?' Napoleon nodded slightly, blue eyes ablaze. 'On what, exactly?'

Napoleon surged up, closing the space between them and crushing their lips together. They kissed like it was breath to a drowning man. Napoleon's tongue demanded access to Illya's mouth, and he acquiesced. His teeth latched onto his bottom lip, tugging and nibbling. Breathless, the pair broke apart. Napoleon was panting heavily as he rose from his seat and sent it careening to the side. He wrapped his arms around Illya's neck, and pressed a thigh between his legs.

'On exactly how long it takes you to get me to my bed.' Illya shook his head as he snorted. Seizing Napoleon by the hips, he yanked him up sharply into his arms. Napoleon obligingly locked his legs around Illya's waist and let himself be carried from his office. The fact that Illya was able to pick him up and hold him easily went straight to his groin.

Napoleon began to suckle at Illya's throat, drawing gasps as red blotches blossomed along the pale, taunt flesh of his neck. They crashed into the door of Napoleon's bedroom. The lamp was the only source of light in the room, lighting it with a dark glow. Unhooking Napoleon's arms from around his neck, he tossed him onto the bed. Napoleon landed with a soft thud, pushing himself up onto his elbows. His dark hair was a dishevelled mess. Illya slammed the door shut behind him and stalked towards the bed. His gaze was hungry, the way a predator studied his prey. A wicked grin spread across his face.

'I hope you remember how to ride, Cowboy.'

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Napoleon definitely A) Has a major hair-pulling kink and B) Is totally a pushy bottom.

Napoleon singing Dear Future Husband is a reference to the amazing Napollya fanvid made by JesstheFlamingMess, check it out.

I do not know any Russian so feel free to correct any mistakes I made


	2. Held Him Captive In My Kiss

Things aren't easy when you're dating a spy and Napoleon knows all about it. His relationship with Illya is on fairly shaky ground. But when Napoleon is kidnapped as leverage against Illya, Illya will tear the world apart to bring him home.

Possible trigger warnings apply, see bottom of chapter for more details. Title from the song 'Hurricane,' by Halsey. Darker chapter than the first. Enjoy!

Don't own, sigh.

* * *

Napoleon winced as he knocked into a coffee table. His shin throbbed and he was sure there was going to be a bruise there tomorrow. Who thought slabs of marble made good table tops anyway? The normally put-together man must have made quite a sight, dashing through the hallways of the Agora Gallery. One hand rooted through the jacket of his navy three-piece while the other was raised to display the current time on his Rolex. Napoleon stifled a groan.

Finally locating his ringing iPhone, he hurriedly answered it. He tucked it between his ear and shoulder as he pushed through the glass front doors.

'I know, I know, I'm terribly late. Davenport just _would not_ stop talking.' Napoleon explained. He lifted his briefcase over his head to shelter him from the fat raindrops hammering down on New York. The skies were nearly black from the dark rainclouds, and was that lightening Napoleon saw? God, he hoped not. His rescue dog, an Alaskan Malamute named Clark, absolutely abhorred thunderstorms and had taken to hiding under Napoleon's covers during them. How Illya had talked him into adopting the abandoned puppy still mystified Napoleon. Probably with several blow jobs. Still, Clark was good company for when Illya was away. Which felt like all the time, recently, he thought darkly.

'You said you'd be home by six. It is quarter to seven. We will never make reservation now.' Illya ground out. Napoleon could picture him, wearing a path into his mahogany hardwood floors as he paced anxiously. Sighing, he attempted the unenviable task of trying to flag down a cab.

'I'm sorry. You know how these rich idiots can be. Can never stop blathering, wasting everybody's time.' Maybe he was being too harsh, Napoleon mused. It's not like he hadn't gone into this relationship with his eyes wide open. Look at how the two of them met! Illya had made it clear his work came first and Napoleon had accepted that. And he did try so hard when he was here.

'You say this as if you are not one of them.' Illya derided, voice harsh. Napoleon's lips curled into a grimace. Looks like he had spoken too soon. A car swept through a puddle, drenching him in muddy rainwater. He shook his hair out of his eyes and surveyed his dripping suit with dismay. Fantastic, he thought. Because he wasn't miserable enough.

'You know what, forget it, Illya. I'm not having this conversation right now. We'll talk when I get home.' Napoleon snorted. 'If you're even still there.' He added under his breath.

'Fine.' Illya snarled, hanging up. Napoleon let his eyes drift closed from frustration. He was seriously fighting the urge to hurl it away. He hated fighting with Illya. Unfortunately, it seemed to be happening more and more lately and the tension was becoming untenable. He wished he could go back to how they were at the start, when everything was fun and easy and new. When had they lost that and started arguments over nothing?

His eyes closed in despair, he didn't notice two men approach him from behind. Not until the barrel of a gun was pushed into the small of his back, that is. A hand snaked out and gripped his right shoulder tightly. Napoleon bit back a yelp as his eyes snapped open.

'Don't yell; don't draw attention; just drop the phone and walk.' A low voice ordered in his ear, squeezing his shoulder painfully. Napoleon nodded his understanding slowly. His phone slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the concrete pavement. Wincing at the sound of smashed glass, he let himself by guided by the hand on his shoulder. He briefly thought about trying to run, when the other man took hold of his left elbow. A second gun prodded him harshly in the side. Napoleon bit back a hiss and glanced around. Nobody was paying them any attention, bustling past them to get out of the horrendous rain. The two men directed him down a dark alley. A dirty white van was parked in the shadows, its back doors gaping.

Napoleon realised with a sinking feeling that this was no simple robbery, as he had previously considered. Deciding to take his chances, he opened his mouth to cry for help. A filthy hand jammed against his mouth, muffling any shouts. The hand gripping his elbow suddenly began an iron vice as the two men began to drag Napoleon towards the van.

This was not Napoleon's first kidnapping, but he sensed this one was probably going to be far more hazardous for his health. He began kicking wildly, attempting to throw off his assailants as they hauled him to the doors of the van. His teeth sank into the soft flesh of the hand on his mouth. Blood welled in his mouth, and Napoleon fought the urge to choke.

The man holding his elbow lost his balance, yelping as he felt teeth latch onto his hand. With a heavy thud, both he and Napoleon crashed to the floor of the van. The man ended up on top of Napoleon, pinning his chest under a considerable weight. His hand was still smothering Napoleon's mouth. At the same time, Napoleon's flailing foot made contact with something hard. He heard a sickening crunch as he felt bone give way. His other abductor fell to the ground with a howl.

"Shut up you fucking idiot." The driver hissed, clambering out from the front. The man on the ground paid him no heed as he roared in agony. His gun dropped to the ground with a clatter. His hands cradled the knee, which was twisted at an awkward angle.

With a snarl, the driver pulled a gun from the back of his jeans. Too late, Napoleon realised what was about to happen. But by then the blood was splattering all over him. The gun pressed to his side was suddenly pushed against his own head. The driver unscrewed the silencer calmly, as if he had not just blown a man's head away, and cast a glare at the stunned Napoleon.

"Not another fucking peep out of you." He growled. Napoleon was frozen. His eyes never left the mess that had been a man's skull just a moment before. The driver slammed the van doors shut, and with a screech of tires, the van was tearing out of the alley.

Slowly, he felt the pressure of the gun pressed against his head ease away. His kidnapper rolled away, the hand smothering any shouts for help loosening its grip. Napoleon didn't even dare to breathe. Then he was being rolled unto his stomach and his hands were jerked behind his back. Napoleon bit back a yelp as steel handcuffs bit into the soft flesh of his wrists.

Hands were grasping his legs, holding them tightly together. The unmistakeable tearing of duct tape sounded and soon Napoleon's ankles were securely bound. With a subtle tug, he tested his bonds. He wasn't going anywhere.

Finally, he was turned onto his back and the duct tape made another appearance. A filthy cloth was shoved into his mouth, which was then sealed layer by layer by the roll of tape being wound round his head.

Satisfied his victim was secure, the man settled himself comfortably against the wall. Napoleon could feel his gaze crawling over him as he struggled back. It was not an easy thing to do, tied up in the back of a moving vehicle, but eventually, Napoleon worked himself up into a sitting position. His head pounded where he had cracked it against the floor of the van, and he rested it against the side of the van. He felt like he was going to be sick. His stomach was in knots and he had to make himself take deep, slow breaths. It was already hard enough to force enough oxygen into his lungs around the musty cloth shoved halfway down his throat.

Napoleon hated to admit it, even just to himself, but he was scared. He didn't understand what was happening. What could these men possibly want with him? Was this to do with Illya? Oh God, Illya! What if the last conversation Napoleon ever had with Illya was an argument? No, he couldn't think like that. Illya would find him. He blocked out all other thoughts and focused on just that. Illya would find him.

Illya had needed to do something to relieve the tension from his argument with Napoleon, so he grabbed his keys and Clark's leash and set off into the rain. Now, absolutely freezing and soaked to the bone, he wondered if he had been punishing himself. He had been rather harsh with Napoleon; after all, it wasn't his fault he was late. Illya himself had missed several of their dates due to work.

The apartment was dark when he returned from his run. Illya furrowed his brows. Letting Clark dry himself on the Persian rug in front of the mounted flat screen (Napoleon would have a fit when he found out), he glanced at the clock on the stainless steel oven in the kitchen. Napoleon should have been home by now. Perhaps he was out sulking. Checking his phone, he was no missed calls. Fine. If Napoleon wanted to be a child and go off to pout, let him. Illya didn't care.

Except Illya did care. After a quick shower and change of clothes, he grabbed his phone. He dialled Napoleon's number with a sigh. Holding the phone to his ear, he began to root through the drawers for take-out menus. The phone rang and rang, before eventually going to voicemail. Illya frowned and tried again. The same result. So Napoleon _was_ avoiding him.

'отродье (Brat).' Illya muttered, temper rising again. Slamming the drawer shut, he stomped over to the floor length windows lining one wall and opened the door to the balcony. A chilling gust of wind swept into the apartment, scattering some papers which had been resting on a nearby coffee table, but at least the rain had died down. Illya eased the doors closed again.

He was restless, unable to stand still. Pottering around the apartment, he opened and closed drawers, thumbed through books, even refolded all the laundry. Time dragged by, and still Napoleon hadn't returned. This was unlike him. Whenever they fought, Napoleon didn't avoid the issue. He had no problem with making his thoughts on a matter very clear. It was Illya who was a big fan of ignoring a problem until eventually, it just went away. It rarely did. But this waiting around was intolerable. When his phone began to ring, Illya all but flung himself across the room to answer it, he was so bored. He answered it on the first ring.

'Hello?'

'We have your lover.'

Illya felt his insides turn to ice. He could hear his own heart beating, the thump of his blood hammering in his ears. A red mist descended over his vision. He took a deep breath and forced himself to pay attention as the smug voice continued speaking.

'Bring Dr. Karim to him to Bearhaven Warehouse or we kill Mr. Solo. You have four hours.'

'What proof do I have that you even have Napoleon?' Illya ground out, racing to the bedroom. He headed straight towards the walk-in wardrobe and yanked out a chest from the shelf above a row of crisp white shirts. He had no intention of complying with this man's demands, but he needed to keep him talking. The voice on the phone chuckled.

'Very well, Mr. Kuryakin.' Illya noted the man spoke with a refined English accent as he methodically loaded his .45, ignoring the shaking in his hands. He tucked it into the waistband of his washed-out denim jeans and curled his hands into tight fists. A grunt of pain sounded through the phone.

'Illya?' Napoleon's voice was quivering slightly, but it was clear he was trying to remain composed. Illya could only imagine how scared he must be feeling. Oh God, what had Illya dragged Napoleon into?

'Napoleon, are you alright? Did they hurt you?' He snarled at the thought of those men touching _his_ Napoleon. He heard a hitch in Napoleon's breathing, then a shaky exhale.

'No, not reall-,' Napoleon was suddenly cut off. The smug British accent was talking again.

'Four hours, Mr. Kuryakin. Time is ticking.' Illya was left listening to the dial tone. With a snarl, he checked the scope on his rifle. He loaded a duffle bag with enough ammunition to arm a small country, until it was straining to burst open. As he packed, his mind was racing a mile a minute. Dr. Karim was a leading expert in biochemical weaponry. Illya had been personally responsible for retrieving him from where he had been held prisoner in Syria by ISIS rebels, along with Gaby of course. But Illya didn't even know where he was now, probably not even in New York. Waverly could have relocated him anywhere after Illya had delivered him into his hands.

Shouldering the heavy duffel bag, he let his lips curl into a vicious snarl. These men thought they could use Napoleon against him. Illya growled. They were about to learn how wrong they were.

Napoleon was freezing. When the van had finally stopped, they briefly untied him before stripping him down to his damp shirt and trousers, taking away even his shoes and socks. Next they cuffed his hands together, before locking a wide, black leather collar around his neck. A chain, firmly bolted to the concrete floor, was connected to the collar. Finally, they had tied a blindfold around his eyes, leaving him chained, shivering and blind.

He had tried to stay calm, when his abductor put a phone to his ear and told him to let his boyfriend know he was still alive. Mr. Owens, one of the two men had called him. Napoleon forced himself to not react when Mr. Owens had possessively buried his hand in Napoleon's mussed curls, and focus on the sound of Illya's voice. Illya would come for him, he told himself.

After Owens had hung up on Illya, he had stayed for a moment. The hand in his hair began to pet him, as if he was just an animal. Napoleon felt like he was going to be sick. Then with a chuckle, he was gone, ordering his men to keep an eye on the pup. Make sure he behaved, he had mocked. Napoleon bit back a retort. Now was not the time for his anger to surface.

The men had left Napoleon alone, talking quietly amongst themselves. In an attempt to keep warm, Napoleon had pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them tightly. The handcuffs rubbed the tender flesh of his wrists raw. His damp shirt clung to his clammy skin. Every time he shifted, the heavy chain clinked and tugged at his collar. It was humiliating. Napoleon blinked back a sudden onset of tears which threatened to pour.

This wasn't his world, kidnappings and blackmail. This was Illya's world. Napoleon almost wished he could make himself angry at Illya for getting him into this mess; just to feel anything other than frustration and fear. But he couldn't. He loved him too much.

Napoleon was so distracted by his inner turmoil, he almost missed the hushed conversation cut off. Somewhere behind him, a door clicked shut. His head instinctively swivelled in the direction of the sound. He hated this, being kept quite literally in the dark.

'Out.' Owens ordered. Chairs shuffled on the cold, concrete floor, footsteps thudded. Somewhere off to the side, a door clattered shut. The warehouse was silent now, save for the quiet sound of water dripping. Napoleon's ears strained for the tell-tale sound of footsteps but there was nothing. He squirmed under the scrutiny of the man lurking in the room.

And then there was a hand in his hair, tugging at his curls until his neck was bared. Napoleon couldn't help it; he flinched. There was a cruel chuckle as lips ghosted by his ear. The hairs on Napoleon's neck were standing up. The heavy chain clinked. Almost without noticing, he'd tried to drag himself as far away from the hand in his hair as he could.

'I can understand why Mr. Kuryakin would be so taken with you, Napoleon.' Owens murmured in his ear. The smell of stale sweat wafted off him. 'You are a _gorgeous_ creature.' Napoleon felt teeth nip at his earlobe and shuddered. He could barely breathe; his chest felt tight. This was too much.

He raised his elbow and jerked it back with all the force he could. From the pained groan, it looked like he had hit his mark. Ripping his hair free of the man's hand, Napoleon scrambled away as far as the chain bolted to the floor allowed. He choked for a second as his leash grew taut.

The darkness was pressing in around him; suffocating him. His hands came up and tore the blindfold away from his eyes. Blinking in the harsh overhead lights, he saw his abductor for the first time. Heavyset, mid-forties at a guess. His hair had begun to grey and his hairline had receded. He was hunched over, hands cradling his crotch. His watery green eyes blazed with unbridled fury.

'You little bitch!' He snarled, lunging forward. Napoleon's eyes grew wide and suddenly there was a heavy weight pinning him to the floor. His head cracked against the rough concrete floor, and Napoleon saw stars. Coughing heavily, he fought to catch his breath. Fumbling hands were at his shirt, yanking it open. Buttons scattered wildly and Napoleon could hear the sound of fabric tearing. He tried twisting, but Owen's thighs had him in a vice grip. Remembering a trick Illya once used on him, he bucked up with his hips. With a grunt, his assailant is successfully dislodged.

Napoleon rolled onto his stomach and tried to crawl away. Suddenly, the chain on his collar jerked taut, choking him. A heavy weight settled on the small of his back, pinning him down once more. His cuffed hands scrabbled uselessly at the concrete. A hand tightened in his hair and jerked his head back.

'You're going to regret fighting me, you little slut.' It's then Napoleon felt the unmistakeable hardness grinding into his lower back. 'I'm going to enjoy myself fucking you.' The sound of a belt unbuckling sent Napoleon into a frenzy as he struggled all the harder. His mind went blank with panic. All he could think was no, no, NO!

'Get off him. Now.' Napoleon could have cried. Craning his neck, he caught a glimpse of Illya in his periphery. The hand tugging his curls pulled harder and Napoleon was hauled up and back onto his knees. An arm wrapped around his chest, and twisted him so that Napoleon was between him and Illya's gun.

'Where is Dr. Karim?' The man was panicking, that much was clear, but he was trying to keep his voice cool and collected. His eyes darted around the warehouse but his guards were nowhere to be seen.

'I already dispatched your men. It was remarkably easy. You could say I was… motivated.' Illya's eyes scanned the length of Napoleon's body, searching for injuries. Napoleon's weary eyes met his gaze. All the adrenaline that had hummed through his body seeped away, leaving Napoleon exhausted. Illya gestured with his gun.

'Drop him. Right now. And maybe I don't kill you.' Mr. Owens' arm tightened around Napoleon's chest. It was making it hard to breathe. It was clear the man felt cornered. Napoleon could feel him trembling.

'I want a guarantee you'll let me live!' He shouted. Illya ignored him, taking a step forward.

'Three.' Illya stated. He watched the confusion flash through man's eyes, then the fear when he realised what Illya had meant.

'If you shoot me, you'll have to shoot him!'

'Two.' Another step.

'Here, here, take him!' Napoleon was all but thrown forward. He caught himself before he collapsed onto the ground. Mr. Owens scrabbled backwards, clambering to his feet. He raised his hands in surrender. Illya gestured again with the gun, pointing him towards the nearby wall.

'Don't move.' He ordered him, before turning his attention to Napoleon, who hadn't moved an inch. He just knelt there, frozen, eyes glued to the ground.

A hand settled on his shoulder and Napoleon flinched. Jerking his head up, Illya's concerned blue eyes were all he concentrate on for a moment. He was kneeling beside him, arms loosely held out but looking too nervous to touch him. With a strangled sob, Napoleon all but threw himself at Illya, letting the taller man wrap his arms around him. Cradled against Illya's chest, Napoleon pressed his face into the crook of Illya's neck. He focused on the sound of Illya's heartbeat as he fought to get his breathing under control.

'It's alright Napoleon, you're ok, just breathe.' Illya murmured, tenderly rubbing his back. Napoleon took a shaky breath and pulled back.

'You're right,' he swallowed, steeling himself. He smoothed back his hair out of his face. 'I'm ok. I'm ok.' He didn't know whether he was trying to convince Illya or himself. The handcuffs rattled as he held his wrists out to Illya.

'How about we get these off me?' Scanning the room, Illya spotted a pile of keys on a rickety table nearby. Keeping one eye peeled on the man against the wall, he retrieved the keys and set about freeing Napoleon, first the cuffs and then that horrific collar.

Napoleon couldn't have been more relieved when Illya had peeled the collar off from around his neck. Flinging it to the side in disgust, Illya's fingers traced the ring of bruises already blooming on Napoleon's neck. He gently pressed soft kisses to the purpling flesh. Napoleon gave a slight wince.

'I'm sorry,' Illya murmured. He was apologizing for more than the bruises, and they both knew it. Napoleon's hand cradled Illya's face, thumb tracing along his jaw.

'It wasn't your fault,' Napoleon whispered. Their lips brushed as Napoleon gave him a chaste kiss.

'I should have protected. You are hurt because of me.' Illya argued, helping Napoleon to his feet and steadying him. Napoleon gripped his forearm tightly.

'You came for me.' He said simply. Illya's eyes darkened.

'I will _always_ come for you.' He promised, pressing his lips to the inflamed skin of Napoleon's inner wrists.

Illya then turned his attention to the man pressed to the wall. Storming over, he shoved his knee into his stomach. As he gasped for air, Illya flipped him over his shoulder and on to the floor. His head smacked against the hard concrete as he landed with a crash. Illya whipped out his gun, shoving it in the man's face. His free hand wrapped around his throat. The man spluttered for air.

'What made you think you could touch _my_ Napoleon?' Illya growled, his voice tight with rage. 'What made you think you could lay your disgusting hands on him, and I would not kill you for it?' The man's hands scrabbled uselessly against the iron vice squeezing his throat.

'Illya, stop!' Napoleon yelled. His hand closed around the barrel of the gun and jerked it away. Illya stared at him, eyes full of confusion. Napoleon did _not_ wish Illya to kill this scum?

'Napoleon, you don't understand.' Illya tried to reason with him, hand crushing the bastard's throat even tighter. 'This man does not deserve to live. He _touched_ you, Napoleon.' Napoleon snarled.

'You think I don't know that Illya. I understand better than you ever could!' He roared. Illya started at this sudden display of anger, releasing the bastard's throat. He spluttered, gasping for air. Illya ignored him in favour of catching Napoleon's hand. Napoleon jerked his hand away, taking a step back.

'Don't touch me.' He snarled. 'I'm not a possession, Illya! I'm not a toy that another child stole from you. I am a goddamn person! It was me he put his hands on. Me, he collared and humiliated. Me, he tried to-.' Napoleon exhaled slowly, his anger leaving him as viciously as it came.

'It's my decision, Illya,' He was just so tired. He held out a hand to Illya.

'Just take me home,' He pleaded, voice barely more than a whisper. Illya's resolve crumbled to dust. He ignored the extended hand, electing instead to wrap his arms around Napoleon, enveloping the shorter man in a tight hug. Napoleon literally _melted_ into Illya. Illya cradled him, running his hands up and down Napoleon's back. God, he was freezing.

He sent a deathly glare at the pathetic excuse of a man panting on the floor. This man had done this to Napoleon. Scared him, hurt him. He made a decision. Pressing a soft kiss against the top of Napoleon's head, he shucked off his jacket and wrapped it around his shoulders. Napoleon tugged it closer, humming pleasantly from the warmth.

Illya stepped away, reluctant to let go of Napoleon, but he had to. He yanked the man on the floor up by the scruff of his neck, dragging him towards the centre of the warehouse. He ignored the spluttered protests of the scum as he tossed him onto the concrete.

'Strip.' He ordered, his voice cold, tone brooking no argument. The man's eyes grew comically wide.

'Illya?' Napoleon asked from behind him, uncertain. Illya spared him a reassuring glance. Napoleon's eyebrows were furrowed in confusion. Turning back to the waste of breath kneeling on the floor, he pointed his gun right between his eyes. God, how he wished he could pull the trigger.

'Strip.' This time, the man complied. Movements sluggish, he toed off his shoes, pulled off his socks and tugged his knitted jumper over his head. A pointed glare from Illya had him reluctantly peeling off his beige slacks and tossing them with the rest. He shivered in the freezing night air. Scooping them from where they had lain abandoned on the ground, Illya tossed the handcuffs at him.

'Put them on.' He demanded. The man gulped visibly.

'I can pay you. I can make you rich beyond your wildest dreams.'

'Do not make me tell you again.' Illya growled. With a strangled sob, the man fastened the cuffs around his wrists. Illya tucked the gun back into the waistband of his jeans, kneeling down. Examining the man's bonds, he ratcheted the cuffs a few notches tighter. Satisfied, he let a sadistic grin stretch across his face. He pointed at the collar lying abandoned on the floor inches away, chain still connected.

'Put it on.' The man's face blanched. Shaking, his hands reached out, pinching it between two fingers as if it were a deadly snake. For a moment, it looked as if he was going to rebel, but a look at the deathly calm on Illya's face stopped him. His fingers shook as they wrapped the collar around his neck. Illya took over, gracefully slipping the lock on and clicking it shut. Gathering the keys and clothes, he settled them on the ground just outside of the man's reach. He turned to Napoleon, trembling even while wrapped in Illya's jacket, eyes fixed on the collar.

'Napoleon,' Illya called, startling him out of his stupor. He fixed what he hoped was a gentle, soothing smile on his face. 'Time to go home.' Napoleon visibly relaxed at his words. Hand in hand, they ignored the shouted protests of the man chained to the floor. Illya would call Gaby, ask her to take care of it from the car.

Or maybe he'd tell her in the morning. There was no hurry.

Illya was worried about Napoleon. He hadn't said a word on the entire drive home, gone directly to the bathroom when they arrived home and been in there for nearly an hour. He knocked hesitantly on the bathroom door.

'Napoleon?' He called out. There was no reply. Pressing his ear to the wooden door, he could hear the sound of the shower still running. He tried the door handle. The door swung open smoothly. Steam billowed around the room as Illya entered.

Napoleon had his back to the door. His arms were extended as he braced himself against the slate-grey tiles of the shower, his head bowed. His skin was a vibrant shade of red, and Illya could see the remnants of what had been a full bar of soap lying abandoned at his feet. Illya's heart dropped to his stomach.

Kicking off his shoes, he peeled his black Henley over his head and tossed it to the side. Napoleon's shoulders tensed at the sound of Illya sliding back the glass shower door but otherwise didn't move. Illya curled his arms around Napoleon's waist, ignoring the scalding water seeping through his jeans. He rested his head between Napoleon's shoulder blades, just listening to the sound of his heartbeat. He began to murmur softly in Russian, a litany of soothing pet names. He felt the tension physically melt away from Napoleon as he slowly relaxed into Illya's arms. There was a choking sound and suddenly Napoleon was turning in his arms, burying his head in Illya's chest.

'I'm sorry.' Of all the things Napoleon could have said, that was not what Illya had expected. Tilting Napoleon's chin up with his thumb, he gazed at the turmoil raging in those gorgeous blue eyes. Illya met him with confusion clear in his own eyes. Napoleon exhaled shakily.

'I don't know why I'm such a mess. Nothing even happened, really. But…' Napoleon trailed off, catching his bottom lip between his teeth.

'But?' Illya prompted.

'I can't stop thinking about what could have happened.' Napoleon confessed. 'He had me pinned down and I couldn't do anything to stop him.' His voice lowered, so quiet almost missed it 'I can still feel his hands.'

Illya was lost for words. He didn't know what to say. What could he say? What could he possibly say that would wipe away that man's words, his touch? There were no words. But there was something Illya could do.

Napoleon started slightly as Illya lowered his lips to his neck, mindful of the vivid ring of bruises blossoming there. He began to press gentle kisses down Napoleon's chest, back up, down both his arms. Napoleon's breathing became laboured, his throat tight as Illya used his lips to wash away the feeling of _his_ hands touching him. All Napoleon felt in their aftermath was the barest scratch of Illya's lips, the barely-there whisper of breath on his skin. It was ok, he was ok. Illya came for him. For the first time that night, Napoleon felt it in his bones. He was _safe_. He was home, and he was safe and he was loved.

* * *

An OMC attempts to rape Napoleon. He is stopped before he can, but obviously Napoleon is trying to cope in the aftermath.

Alaskan Malamute puppies are actually too cute for this world, check them out seriously.


	3. Because You're Mine, I Walk The Line

**Chapter Summary: When Napoleon decides to act the brat, Illya needs to take him in hand (and over his knee)**

 **or**

 **The 'Don't Make Me Put You Over My Knee' Affair**

 **Little bit of light-hearted smut to break the tension of the last chapter. Special guest appearance in this fic from Clark, our adorable little friend and quickly becoming my fav.**

 **Title inspired by 'I Walk The Line' by (You guessed it) Halsey**

 **As ever, don't own sigh :( (Yet)**

* * *

Lips mouthed their way down Illya's neck, making him moan slightly. Napoleon's elbows came to rest on his shoulders, his hands running up and down his under his off-white wife-beater. His fingers clenched tightly around the sheets of paper he was holding, crumpling them beyond repair. His knuckles were almost white with tension.

'Napoleon,' He protested weakly. He could feel Napoleon's mouth curl into a grin against his back.

'Hmmm?' Napoleon answered cheekily, licking a long stripe up Illya's neck. Illya arched his spine in response, groaning. He batted Napoleon's head away.

'Go to _bed_ , Napoleon.' Illya insisted. Or tried to. It sounded a lot more like pleading to his ears. Napoleon gave a low chuckle, tweaking his nipple.

'Only if you come with me.' Teeth nibbled at the nape of his neck. With a groan, Illya tossed the files onto the coffee table, scattering the papers wildly. He dropped his head into his hands, signalling his defeat.

Illya was leaving on a mission tomorrow morning. Napoleon had a work function to attend, so Illya had decided to spend the night on mission prep, reading up on the target's dossier. He had not accounted for a somewhat tipsy, and horny, Napoleon taking it upon himself to return early, with the sole desire of dragging Illya off to bed. That had been almost an hour ago. Illya _had_ hoped that stubbornly ignoring Napoleon would discourage him. What had he been thinking? Without lifting his head, he snorted.

'You are truly a отродье (Brat). You know this?' Napoleon nipped at his earlobe in response.

'And if I am?' He teased. Illya lifted his head, smirk spreading across his face. Catching Napoleon by surprise, he rose smoothly from his chair and grasped Napoleon's wrists in a single hand. He yanked Napoleon around the armchair, wrapping his other arm around his back to trap him close. Illya studied him for a second. He was definitely rather not sober, but looked alert enough to give consent. Napoleon tugged experimentally at Illya's grip. There was no give. Illya felt a jolt of pleasure as Napoleon's gaze darkened with desire. He lowered his lips to Napoleon's ear.

'Don't make me put you over my knee.' He felt Napoleon shiver. He spared a glance at Napoleon's face. His pupils were blown and his cheeks flushed. Catching Napoleon's eye, he raised a single eyebrow in a silent question. Napoleon leant forward, his teeth capturing Illya's bottom lip and giving it a nip. His lips curved into a full-blown smirk.

'Maybe you should.'

Illya felt himself giving Napoleon an answering grin. He had been nervous of Napoleon's response. They hadn't played any games of this nature since Napoleon's kidnapping. Before, they had dabbled in BDSM; Illya had always been a very dominant lover and Napoleon had simply been curious. But things changed after the incident with Owens. Napoleon had confessed that he felt anxious at surrendering complete control, only able to remember how powerless he had felt at that bastard's mercy. But now, he appeared confident, sure of himself.

Illya caught his smirking mouth in a hungry kiss. His tongue lapped up the taste of whiskey, eliciting a throaty moan from Napoleon. Capturing Napoleon's tongue, he suckled on it tentatively. Napoleon's hips bucked in response. Illya broke away, breathless. His hands released Napoleon and he settled himself back down on the plush armchair.

'Strip for me, отродье.' The two had renegotiated their rules after the incident with Owens, even though they hadn't played together. Napoleon had asked Illya to avoid terms like slut or bitch. Having had no adverse reactions to being called a brat earlier, Illya decided to stick with that for the time being. He was rewarded with a throaty chuckle.

Napoleon felt the smirk on his face grow wider at Illya's appreciative gaze. His hands played with his cornflower blue tie, unravelling the already loosened knot and slowly sliding it free from around his neck. With a flourish, he dropped it into Illya's extended hand. He felt a low heat stir inside him as Illya's long fingers toyed with the silk, curling it around his fist loosely.

Next, Napoleon's hands wandered to his shirt. Button by button, he slowly revealed his chest. His nipples hardened as the cool air hit them. His eyes never left Illya's face, watching as he drank in the performance in front of him. Napoleon peeled his shirt back over his shoulders and let it flutter to the ground. His hands drifted to his belt. With smooth, sure tugs, it slid free from his trousers. It joined his discarded dress shirt on the floor.

Basking in Illya's hungry gaze, he reached for the waistband of his trousers. Working it over the swell of his ass, Napoleon let them pool around his bare feet. He stepped out of the crumpled pants and kicked them to the side. Glancing up at Illya, he took special delight in the stunned expression on his face. Instead of the boxers Illya had been expecting, Napoleon wore a pair of crimson lace panties, an impressive tent in the crotch area. He toyed with their waistband. Napoleon swore Illya licked his lips. He moved to ease them down.

'Wait.' Illya ordered, voice laden with lust. Napoleon quirked an eyebrow, but dropped his hands. Illya crooked his fingers, beckoning Napoleon closer. Napoleon was only too happy to oblige. When he was within range, Illya's large hands came to grip his hips. His thumbs hooked Napoleon's underwear and yanked them down in a single, smooth movement. Napoleon's hard cock sprang free, its tip glistening with pre-cum. Napoleon obligingly stepped out of the panties and watched as Illya carelessly tossed them over the couch and into the shadows.

'Turn around.' Napoleon obeyed, slowly revolving, hands held out to the side as he displayed his toned body for Illya. He heard a soft curse in Russian behind him and grinned. A hand closed around his left wrist, drawing it behind his back with a firm, but gentle grip. His right wrist soon joined it. He felt the tell-tale slip of silk wrap loosely around them, before falling still. The pause was a question. Napoleon let himself nod slightly.

The loose loops instantly grew tighter. Illya had wound it firmly around his wrists, not so tight as to chafe, but enough to ensure Napoleon wasn't slipping free. Napoleon felt himself grow weak at the feeling of silk trapping his wrists. Knowing he was bound by his own tie made him dizzy. He gave a half-hearted tug. There was no give; not that he had expected there to be. He let loose a low moan.

Then Illya's hands were on his hips, spinning him around. One hand brushed Napoleon's cock and he bucked. Illya clucked his tongue in disapproval.

'Behave, Маленький щенок (Little pup).' Illya remonstrated, flicking the tip of Napoleon's cock. Napoleon bit back a whimper. Oh God, he was so _hard_! Only Illya had the power to do this, to reduce him to a mess with the barest of touches. Illya gripped Napoleon's elbow and used it to guide him.

'Colour?' Illya checked. Napoleon licked his lips.

'Green,' he answered confidently.

One moment Napoleon was hovering over a seated Illya, the next he lay sprawled over Illya's lap. His centre of gravity was slightly thrown off by his bound hands, pushing his ass up into the air in order to keep his feet on the floor. His throbbing cock was pressed uncomfortably against Illya's clothed erection. He felt heady, being completely naked and bound while Illya was still dressed. Illya's left hand was curled in Napoleon's hair, petting him gently. Napoleon arched into his comforting touch. Illya's other hand was rubbing gentle circles on Napoleon's lower back. Napoleon growled.

'Oh God, just _get on with it_ , Illya!' Napoleon pleaded. Illya's fingers tightened in his hair, yanking his head back.

'So eager to be punished, отродье?' Illya mocked. His hand drifted down to Napoleon's ass. The skin quivered beneath his touch. Napoleon gave an absolutely filthy moan in response. Illya's cock strained against the tight confines on his slacks, his pulse thundering. He found it hard to believe this absolutely divine creature was his and his alone. His fingers lightly danced along the tanned swell of Napoleon's ass.

SMACK!

Napoleon's whole body reacted, jerking up into Illya's hand. Napoleon _mewled,_ a sound that went straight to Illya's throbbing cock.

'Count.' Illya ordered, his voice hoarse to his own ears.

' _One_.' Napoleon groaned, grinding down on Illya's lap.

Hand cupped to emphasize the sharp sound of his hand cracking over Napoleon's flesh, Illya settled into a rhythm; breath, hand, pulse, even the throb of his cock all in time. Napoleons breathy moans, grew louder, driving Illya to distraction. Soon a darkening rose was staining Napoleon's ass. Both cheeks flushed beautifully under Illya's hand, filling him with an odd sense of pride.

Napoleon began to hump Illya's lap in time with the slaps. Illya growled. His next blow fell ruthlessly on the tender flesh at the lower curve of Napoleon's cheek. Napoleon gave a delicious yelp and writhed on Illya's lap. He spread his thighs wider, whimpering under the increasing pace and power of Illya's hand.

'I thought I told you to behave, Маленький щенок?' CRACK. Illya took delight in the gorgeous red glow spreading across Napoleon's ass. Napoleon rocked forward in his lap.

'Twe- _twenty-seven_!' Napoleon choked out. His skin glowed under the sheen of sweat as he writhed under Illya's touch. His tremors went straight to Illya's cock, and he fought hard not to come in his pants. His next blow was strong enough to leave a red, blurry handprint behind. Napoleon gave a strangled wail and bucked hard.

Illya ran his hand along Napoleon's sweaty back and pinned him down, hissing as he felt the flex and give of Napoleon's muscles under his touch. Napoleon's ass, mottled and darkly tormented, was flexing and heaving under Illya's hand. Napoleon was keening, drawn out soft cries slowly rising in volume, kicking and jerking and rocking on Illya's lap. He was a flushed, frantic pink all over - except for the angry red of his shuddering ass.

'You are doing so good, котенок,' Illya soothed, bringing his hand down with another smack. 'Just three more, Маленький котенок (Little kitten). Can you do that for me Napoleon? Can you be a Хороший котенок (Good kitten) for me?' SMACK!

'Tw-twen-twenty-,' Napoleon was panting heavily. 'Twenty- _eight_.'

Illya's shoulders were aching, his hand burning as harshly as Napoleon's ass. He brought his hand down twice more, in quick, successive cracks. Napoleon was trembling all over as he choked out the final count. With a sudden, raw sob, he came hard, spilling himself all over Illya's lap. He collapsed helplessly with a moan.

Illya groaned at the sudden, utterly pliant weight on his lap. His hand came to rest on the burning flesh of Napoleon's ass, feeling how he still trembled and flexed under him. Illya's other hand was still buried in Napoleon's sweat mussed curls and he began to stroke them soothingly.

'You were so good for me, Маленький щенок, so good.' Illya began to murmur softly, a litany of pet names and praises that made the exhausted Napoleon beam gently with pride. Illya felt privileged to see him like this; sprawled across his lap, shaking, a light sheen of sweat coating his trembling skin and utterly blissful.

Napoleon took a few moments to compose himself. He felt completely sated, slumped across Illya's lap while gentle hands petted him, stroked him. He slowly became aware of the hardness prodding him in the side. Letting a cheeky grin spread across his face, he slid off Illya's lap and knelt by his feet. He rested his head on Illya's clothed thigh. Illya let him, an amused smile dancing across his feet.

'What is it now, Маленький отродье (Little Brat)?' He asked, tone both affectionate and exasperated. Napoleon grinned an absolutely _wicked_ grin and licked his lips.

'Well, I do believe you once told me my best asset was my smart mouth.' Illya pretended to think, tapping his long fingers against his thigh

'Did I? I seem to have forgotten.'

Napoleon smirked, nosing up along Illya's thigh until his face was inches away from Illya's clothed erection. He peered up at Illya from underneath his lashes.

'Perhaps I should remind you.'

Illya's hands moved to his waistband, slowly unbuttoning it. He eased the zipper down, shucking his pants over his ass. The pale grey cotton of his briefs were soaked through with pre-cum. His cock strained against the fabric. The briefs quickly joined the trousers, pushed down to his knees and letting Illya's cock spring free.

Encouraged, Napoleon ducked forward, wrapping his lips around Illya's cock. He began to lap at it, warm and wet. His tongue playfully flicked across the tip, making Illya buck up. Hands buried themselves in Napoleon's lush hair, tugging at it impatiently. He heard Illya curse in Russian and smirked around the cock in his mouth. Napoleon's lips stretched around the throbbing cock and he took it deep into his throat, supressing his gag reflex. Setting a steady, fast pace, he bobbed his head up and down, swirling his tongue under the head with every upstroke.

Napoleon pulled out all the tricks, doing everything he knew Illya loved best. He felt encouraged by the breathless moans and gasps above him. Soon Illya was writhing furiously, pushing Napoleon's head down further. Napoleon gagged a little, but let Illya change the pace as he chased his orgasm desperately. When the hand in his hair finally tightened, and he felt Illya stiffen, he peered up just in time to see Illya cast his head back, howling. He was rewarded by the sound of his name spilling from Illya's lips as he came, hard and long, as Napoleon swallowed and suckled him through it attentively.

Licking the last drop of come from his red, swollen lips, Napoleon beamed up at Illya. Not a playful smirk, or a challenging grin but a relaxed, lazy smile. Illya's hands released their punishing grip in his hair, one drifting down to trace along his jaw. His thumb ran possessively across Napoleon's bottom lips.

'Seems I was right about that mouth.' Illya rumbled. Catching Napoleon by the nape of his neck, he began to guide him to his feet. Napoleon stumbled somewhat, with his arms bound as they were but complied, crawling up Illya's lap to meet his lips in a lazy kiss. While Illya caught his breath, Napoleon peppered his jaw with kisses, suckling at the pale skin of his throat.

Illya glanced at his watch, checking the time. Stunned, he saw it was after one-thirty. Napoleon had a meeting tomorrow morning and Illya had an early start himself. Suddenly exhausted, he let his head flop back, eyes drifting shut. Napoleon chuckled against his throat.

'Did I wear you out?' He teased. Illya forced one eye open, glaring at him. He got a cheeky grin for his trouble.

'Отродье.' Illya bemoaned his pup's endless source of energy. He hefted Napoleon up by his waist, wrapping one arm around the startled man's thighs. Napoleon let out an indignant yelp. In one fluid movement, Illya was standing, Napoleon thrown over his shoulder. His bound hands flailed for a second as Illya balanced him.

'Not exactly what I had in mind, you caveman.' Napoleon remarked. Illya gave him a light swat across his heated red ass. Flicking off the overhead lights, he left the living room in darkness carrying his squirming captive. He kicked open their bedroom door, ignoring Napoleon's complaint, and heaved Napoleon onto the king-size bed. He gave a strangled squeak as his red ass bounced off his bed. The curtains hadn't been drawn, the city lights illuminating the bedroom with a faint glow. Napoleon's ridiculous amount of throw pillows scattered to the ground as Napoleon struggled to sit up. Illya took the opportunity to kick off his trousers and underwear, while he yanked his wife-beater over his head.

He began to stalk up the bed, crawling the length of Napoleon's body. Napoleon was growing hard again. His pup had an impressive refractory time. He nipped at the tanned expanse of flesh as he worked his way up, eliciting moans of pleasure as his mouth suckled the tender skin. Slowly reaching Napoleon's swollen lips, he captured them in a hungry kiss. One hand cupped Napoleon's jaw, controlling the kiss. The other reached for his bedside table, triumphantly grasping the bottle of lube.

Dexterous fingers made quick work flipping the cap off the tube. Releasing his grip on Napoleon's jaw, he liberally coated his fingers. Illya's hand wrapped around Napoleon's stiff cock, relishing his breathy gasps as he threw his head back. His eyes drifted shut. No, that was wrong. Illya wanted to see Napoleon's gorgeous blue eyes as he fell apart for him.

'Keep your eyes open for me, котенок.' Illya's breath felt hot against Napoleon's ear as he murmured the words, thumb brushing lightly over Napoleon's neck as his other hand continues to jack Napoleon's hard cock. Napoleon's eyes screwed tighter closed.

'I-Oh _God_ -.' Napoleon's body thrashed under Illya's attention.

'Eyes open.' Words sharper now, harder, as a nail scraped down his cock. Napoleon forced his eyes open, gaze drawn to Illya. His cock throbbed in Illya's hand as he stared into Illya's heated eyes. Illya's hand sped up, increasing his pace. Napoleon's own hands strained against their bonds. He wanted nothing more than to touch Illya, run his hands across that sculpted perfection, feel the tension in his muscles as he brought Napoleon to the edge. But he couldn't. And it was a delicious torment.

Napoleon thought the noise he heard was a whimper, thought it came from his own throat, but the yes and god and harder filling the room drowned everything out but Illya's voice, lips so close to Napoleon's ear that he felt the barest whisper of air every time Illya breathed. Then Illya's lips were pressed to the sensitive skin below his ear.

' _Illya_!'

But Illya ignored him, ignored the plea in Napoleon's voice, and just sank back down Napoleon's body. Illya's eyes were again capturing Napoleon's gaze, looking at up him. Never breaking eye contact, Illya ducked down, and Illya swallowed his cock, tongue and teeth as Napoleon came, shooting down Illya's throat before his lips even reached the base of Napoleon's cock.

Illya just smirked at him as he pulled back, Napoleon's softening cock slipping from between his lips. Napoleon was a mess, sprawled back across a mess of pillows and twisted sheets, gasping for breath. His eyes were closed again as he panted heavily.

'Who's worn out now, отродье?' Illya's voice was unbearably smug. Napoleon stifled a groan as he fought to open one eye. He must look more pathetic than he thought, Napoleon mused, as Illya's face went from self-satisfied to fond. Too exhausted to do anything but lie limp, he let Illya roll him onto his side. A few quick, sure tugs, and the tie wrapped around his wrists was unravelling.

Napoleon felt fingers gently prod the slightly reddened skin of his wrists, lips tenderly pressed to the tender flesh. Illya pulled him up for a moment as he worked the duvet out from under Napoleon's body and brought it back down to drape over the two of them. Napoleon adored how tender Illya was after they played like this. With a satisfied sigh, he snuggled back into Illya's arms, pleased when they wrapped around him and held him close. The pair drifted off into a deep sleep.

* * *

Hours later, Illya was being roused from his peaceful slumber. The sun was peeking up from the horizon, painting the morning sky golden. Its weak rays streamed through the window, making Illya bury his head in the pillows. He let his hands drift down to Napoleon's waist. His half-hard cock was pressed against Napoleon's ass. Perhaps they had time for a quick fuck before they had to get up.

'Illya?' Napoleon asked. Illya hummed and pressed a kiss to the back of Napoleon's neck.

'Yes, щенок?' Illya's accent was thicker from exhaustion.

'You didn't happen to leave the bedroom door open last night, by any chance?' Illya frowned. He didn't see the relevance of such a question. He made to grasp Napoleon's cock and was surprised when Napoleon's hand wrapped around his wrist. Illya groaned in frustration and buried his face in Napoleon's shoulder.

'Why does it matter?' Illya complained. Napoleon gave a low chuckle.

'It matters, Illya, because we have company.' Illya furrowed his forehead in confusion as his head shot up. Lying placidly at Napoleon's other side was Clark. The puppy's tail was wagging furiously as Napoleon's other hand was stroking his belly. It was odd seeing the energetic pup behaving so calmly. Given the chance, Illya would have expected the pup to be leaping about the usually off-limits room, causing chaos. Then his eyes took in the state of the room.

The heavy crimson curtains lay crumpled in a heap on the beige carpet. Feathers from a torn pillow covered the floor like fallen snowflakes. The chair in the corner of the room was flipped over, which had in turn knocked over a potted plant, scattering dirt across the floor. A basket of laundry which had been sitting on the chair was overturned, the freshly washed clothes mingling with the soil. Filthy paw prints led from the dirt to create a chaotic pattern along the carpet. Sitting mangled in the centre of the room were Illya's favourite pair of loafers. He flopped back onto the bed. Napoleon seemed fairly serene about the destruction of his bedroom.

'I am surprised you are so calm about this.' He mentioned, reaching over Napoleon to join him in petting Clark.

'That's because you are going to clean all of this mess up by yourself.' Napoleon stated, utterly self-assured. Illya raised an eyebrow.

'Oh, am I? And why would I do that?' Illya asked.

'Because this is your fault. Consider it _me_ punishing _you._ '

Illya groaned, before rolling out of bed and giving Napoleon a swat across his ass. Napoleon jumped up, shooting Illya a half-hearted glare. Illya yawned and once again surveyed the utter chaos that was their bedroom.

'Your punishment was decidedly more fun.' He huffed.

* * *

 **So there we have it folks. I am addicted to fluff, I'm sorry (not sorry)**

 **Stay tuned for more adventures.**

 **Also, check out this awesome sketch that deffo influenced the end of this fic by kaijusizefeels**

 **post/150060024875/quick-sketch-inspired-by-notanangel97s-awesome**


	4. The City's Ours Until The Fall

**Chapter Summary:** **Illya needs to gain access to an exclusive party for a mission. Guess who happens to have an invitation?**

 **So... I'm alive? Sorry for the vanishing act, I just started college and then I had writer's block, which is a bitch, am I right?**

 **It's time for spy!Napoleon to make an appearance, don't you think?**

 **Title inspired by 'New Americana,' by the wonderful Halsey. Shout out to my wonderful beta and partner in sin, Roostertease_it.**

 **Yup, still not mine, I'm making some calls.**

* * *

Illya was finding it difficult to remember a time he had been more frustrated. His latest mission was proving more difficult than they had previously thought it to be and Illya was at his wits end. Highly sensitive stolen documents were reported to be in the hands of an extremely wealthy individual here in New York. These documents held the identities of undercover agents embedded in THRUSH. UNCLE knew exactly where they were being stored. But unfortunately, Illya and Gaby were at a loss on how to get past the impenetrable security guarding the entrance to that building in particular. Time was of the essence; the documents were said to be sold within the week.

That lead to an extremely frustrated Illya pouring over mission briefings while an irate Gaby shot down all his ideas over a poor Skype connection. Gaby was stuck in London recuperating from broken ribs, meaning Illya was working this mission solo. And he was floundering.

'Perhaps I could enter as accountant with Wayne & Sons.' Illya mused. 'Their firm is based out of floors 48 and 49 of Elysian Tower.' Gaby was already shaking her head.

'That still doesn't solve the problem of how you get to floor 95. You'll only have access to floor 90.'

Illya groaned. This was absolutely infuriating. Normally, this sort of mission would have been Gaby's job. Illya was more suited to physically taxing missions, leaving this sneaking about business to Gaby. The last mission in which he was tasked with reconnaissance, he had been discovered by a Chihuahua and left seven guards incapacitated, before essentially kidnapping the man who would later become his lover. Not exactly the low-key approach these sorts of missions required. He dropped his head into his hands in despair.

He startled when he heard a door slam shut behind him. It must be Napoleon, returning from his evening run. Glancing behind him to confirm, he caught a brief glimpse of Napoleon's sweating form, panting heavily. Before he had the chance to say hello, he was tackled by their quickly growing pup. Gaby was giggling through the laptop speakers as Clark decided to let Illya know exactly how much he missed him in the last forty minutes. Heavy white paws rested on his shoulders, pinning Illya to the couch. Clark's tongue licked a long stripe up Illya's cheek. Illya made a face at the stench of dog breath.

Napoleon chuckled at the sight of his two wolves sprawled on the couch. Illya was batting at Clark, but Napoleon could tell his heart wasn't in it. His Illya was such a softie at heart. Taking mercy on Illya, he whistled sharply. Clark's head shot up and he hurdled off the couch. Bounding up to Napoleon, he jumped back onto his hind legs to rest his front paws on Napoleon's still-heaving chest. God, he was getting so _big_! Napoleon staggered under the sudden weight.

'Come along Clark, let's get you some water. Leave Illya to his secret spy business.' Napoleon cajoled, ruffling Clark's fluffy ears. He pressed a kiss to the top of the pup's head and gently pushed Clark down. Grinning at Illya's fond snort, he directed Clark towards the kitchen. Illya took to righting himself on the couch, endeavouring to restore order to the disarray of pages scattered by Clark's enthusiasm.

Noticing Clark's water bowl was empty, he carried it to the sink, ignoring the pup's whines. He ducked his own head under the stream of water first, desperate to cool down. Rivulets of water streamed down his face, dripping onto the hardwood floors. That was unfortunate.

Filling Clark's water bowl to the brim, he set it back down. Clark, as he did with many things, pounced at it, enthusiastically. Shaking his head fondly at the pup's antics, Napoleon returned to the living room. Illya was cursing in Russian. Napoleon smirked, leaning against the door frame. Illya was hot when he was frustrated.

'I don't think you understand, Illya!' Gaby was getting frustrated now with Illya's obstinence, her German accent becoming more pronounced. 'The only way past floor 90 of the Elysian is by invitation. And unfortunately, U.N.C.L.E. doesn't have one.'

'But I do.' Napoleon offered. Illya' head snapped around comically fast.

'What do you mean, you have an invitation?' Illya demanded. Napoleon shrugged nonchalantly.

'A client invited me to a party at the Elysian. You know, network with potential clients, promote the business, that sort of thing. It's on floor 95.' Napoleon could see the gears churning in Illya's head. He grinned. 'That invitation included a plus one.'

Illya ground his teeth together as he thought it through. He was reluctant to involve Napoleon in his work. He wasn't trained for this world and had already been dragged into it before, against his will. But U.N.C.L.E. needed to recover that intel, and fast. Agents' lives were in danger. This looked like the only possible solution. Without even a curt goodbye to Gaby, Illya slammed the lid of his laptop shut. Napoleon started at the sudden display of aggression. The grin on his face slipped away, replaced by uncertainty.

'I don't understand. I can help. That's a good thing, right?' Napoleon asked. Illya sighed and beckoned Napoleon forward. Napoleon cautiously approached him. Illya forced a feeble smile onto his face.

'I understand you wish to help. But I do not wish to involve you in my work, Napoleon. It could be dangerous.' He explained. Napoleon quirked one corner of his lip up in a reassuring smile.

'I'll be fine.' Napoleon assured him, leaning over the still seated Illya. He braced his hands against the back of couch, and dipped his head down. His sopping curls clung to his forehead and dripped onto Illya. He pressed his lips to Illya's in a chaste kiss. 'After all, I have you to protect me.'

Illya groaned, letting his head flop back. He didn't like this one bit.

'Fine.' He bit out, conceding to Napoleon. 'But there is condition. You will do exactly as I say. If I tell you to follow me, leave me or shut up, you do so.' Napoleon beamed and pushed away from Illya.

'Excellent. Now, I'm going to go for a shower and tomorrow we visit my tailor.' Illya raised an eyebrow. Napoleon simply scoffed at him. 'If you think I'm bringing you to the Elysian in any of your suits, you've got another think coming.'

'I am beginning to regret this already.' Illya grumbled, standing up and pulling his shirt off in one fluid moment. He frowned at Napoleon's bemused expression. 'What are you waiting for? Get into shower.' He ordered. Napoleon tipped him a sloppy salute.

'Sir, yes sir.' He threw over his shoulder as he _sauntered_ from the room; his sweat-laden black muscle tee tossed carelessly behind him. Illya rolled his eyes to the heavens. What was he going to do with his brat?

Well, he had a few ideas.

Casting a final glance at the full-length mirror, Napoleon let himself smirk. Damn, he looked good. He straightened his bow-tie and smoothed his already smooth hair back. He raised his arm and checked his watch. They were going to be late. What was keeping Illya? He strode out of the walk-in wardrobe, adjusting his cufflinks, (a surprisingly tasteful gift from Illya for their three month anniversary, he was actually too adorable) as he went.

'Illya, do you actually plan on getting there tonight or…' Napoleon trailed off as he caught sight of Illya. Or rather, Illya in a tux and looking damn fine. He practically oozed style and elegance. He was standing at the full-length windows, staring out at the light-up city below. Napoleon's mouth was suddenly dry. Illya caught his eye in the reflection of the glass and had the audacity to smirk, the bastard. The dark fabric of the trousers stretched tight across Illya's ass. He looked incredible. Of course, Napoleon might be somewhat biased.

Illya turned to face him, slowly, in order to further tease Napoleon. The only flaw in his gorgeous appearance was the bow tie dangling from around his neck. Napoleon raised an eyebrow in question and Illya ducked his head. A faint blush blossomed across his cheeks.

'Well, well. You clean up well, darling.' Napoleon murmured, stalking closer for a better look. He let his hands drift to Illya's shoulders. 'But it seems you missed something.' He would deny it to his dying day, but he loved being shorter than Illya. Napoleon had never had a lover taller than him before and he loved having to strain slightly to kiss Illya. He had a kink, sue him.

'Let me get that for you.' Napoleon's nimble fingers grasped the dangling ends of Illya's bowtie and with sure movements, began looping it together. Illya's gaze was hungry, as Napoleon pulled him closer. They were pressed chest to chest, groin to groin. Illya's breathing became more rapid. It made Napoleon grin smugly. He loved winding up Illya like this, loved that he had the power to wind Illya up like this.

'The trick to tying a bowtie,' Napoleon explained, voice low. 'Is not to force it. Cajole it. Tease it.' Giving the finished knot a quick tug, he dragged Illya even closer still. Illya growled and caught Napoleon's mouth in a bruising kiss. Napoleon moaned into the kiss, raising his freed hands to cup Illya's jaw. Illya caught Napoleon's bottom lip and give it a nip, before breaking off the kiss.

'You said something about being late.' Napoleon whined pathetically, pushing Illya away.

'Tease.' He grumbled. Grabbing his jacket he left draped on the bed, he shrugged it on. 'You know, I'm seriously reconsidering letting you leave this apartment looking like that.' He added nonchalantly. Illya raised an eyebrow and smirked.

'Is this so? And how might you persuade me to stay?' Illya purred. This time it was Illya stalking Napoleon, backing him up to the bed. It went straight to Napoleon's groin. He forced himself to swallow.

'I'm sure I could think of something.'

'I'm sure you could. You and that smart mouth of yours.' Illya's lips brushed Napoleon's ear. 'And later, you will show me how smart that mouth is.' Napoleon's knees nearly buckled right there. Illya was so close, it was intoxicating. Napoleon just wanted to rip that gorgeous tux right off him and have him fuck him right there and then. But then Illya was pulling away, eliciting a whimper from Napoleon. Illya's eyes were alight with mirth.

'But that is later. Now we must go.' Illya, quite literally, _swanned_ out of the room.

Napoleon never thought he could hate someone the way he hated Illya right now.

The function room of the Elysian was designed with the intention to overwhelm. One wall was entirely comprised of floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a breath-taking view onto Central Park below, even at night. The other walls were a startling shade of white. They hosted a bizarre range of paintings, with no discernible pattern, as far as Illya could tell. A large glass chandelier spiralled from the ceiling, hanging so low that people had to duck under the dangling crystals. The floor was made of glittering white marble, which reflected the dancing flickers of light from the chandelier. It was bright, it was tacky and Illya hated it.

Napoleon hated it too. Illya could tell by the way his jaw clenched when they had entered the room, along with an outraged mutter about putting a Ma Jir Bo next to finger paintings, or something of that nature. But Napoleon was Napoleon. He had quickly adopted a suitably indifferent mask to the apparent art tragedy surrounding them.

Snagging two glasses of champagne from a passing server, Napoleon sipped from one while handing the other to Illya. Illya was about to protest (after all, this was a mission) when Napoleon shook his head minutely. Leaning close so that only Illya could hear him, he whispered in his ear.

'This might be your mission, Illya, but this is my world. Trust me, not having a drink will just invite questions. Half these people make a profession out of drinking. Pretend to sip it, if you have to.' Napoleon punctuated his point by raising the flute to his lips and taking a brief swallow. Illya grit his teeth, but followed suit.

As he did so, Illya studied the room. Two guards at the main doors, another by the side door. That side door is where Illya needed to get through. Security cameras appeared to be focused on the main entrance. He just needed a distraction to draw away the guard's attention.

Napoleon's hand came to rest on his elbow, startling Illya out of his planning. Glancing down at him, he saw Napoleon force a fake smile onto his face, before stepping forward. Only then did Illya notice the two people which had caught Napoleon's attention. The man was late fifties, heavyset with greying hair. His shirt-buttons strained to burst. The woman hanging off his arm was young enough to be his daughter. Her designer gown hung off her bony frame. Napoleon shook the man's hand firmly.

'Marcus, pleasure to see you. And Mrs. Newbridge, you look absolutely exquisite this evening.' The girl giggled as Napoleon's hand reached for her own and he gently pressed a kiss to it. The giggle was high-pitched and irritated Illya to no end. Napoleon gestured to Illya.

'This is my partner, Illya. Illya, this is Marcus and Chloe Newbridge. Marcus is on the board of directors for Triskel Auction House.' Illya nodded his hello, offering his hand to Mr. Newbridge. The other man's grip was firm; his eyes slid over Illya, studying him. Then with a booming laugh, he slapped his other hand against Illya's elbow and released him. Napoleon wrapped an arm around Illya's waist, pulling him close. Catching Chloe Newbridge's crestfallen expression, Illya allowed himself a brief smirk. Illya never denied being possessive. And Napoleon was his.

'Oughta known you batted for the other team too, Solo. Why haven't I met your boy here before?' Napoleon gave an easy laugh and shrugged.

'Why limit myself, Marcus? And Illya's away for work a lot. Not to mention this isn't really his scene.' Illya nodded his assent. Marcus hummed thoughtfully as he plucked a flute of champagne from a waiter and handed it to his wife, who was busy eyeing Napoleon the way a starving man eyed a feast.

'I think I see Annalise Morgenstern over there, darling. Weren't you dying to ask her about her trip to the Bahamas?' Recognising when she was being dismissed, she pecked her husband on the cheek and batted her eyes at Napoleon.

'I hope I see you soon, Mr. Solo.' She giggled. Napoleon just quirked an eyebrow and gave her the patented 'Napoleon Solo' smirk that made ladies swoon.

'I have to agree, Mrs. Newbridge.' With what she must have assumed to be a coquettish wink, she was swanning off into the ground, stumbling slightly in her heels. Marcus grimaced slightly at the sight of his wife, before returning his attention to Napoleon.

'I won't keep you long Solo. Just wanted to say great work with locating that Turkish painting last month. You saved a lot of necks.' Napoleon laughed off the compliment.

'It was nothing really. Just a matter of knowing the right people.'

'You're too modest, Solo. Just letting you know that we are very grateful over at Triskel and will remember it in the future.' Napoleon nodded in thanks, before Marcus turned his attention to Illya. 'Illya, is that how you pronounce it? What is it you do, if you don't mind me asking?' Illya blinked for a moment, as his mind raced for an answer.

'Illya here is an architect.' Napoleon supplied smoothly, giving Illya a meaningful look.

'Architect, yes.' Illya nodded fervently. Marcus nodded politely. They chatted for a few moments, Napoleon diverting many personal questions with a quick reply or a laughing redirect.

'And how did you two meet?' Somehow, Illya didn't think the 'kidnapping then having wild sex in a car' thing was something architects did frequently. Luckily, Napoleon saved him again.

'We met at a party of a mutual friend. Actually, it's a rather funny story. Illya, here,' he patted him on the shoulder, 'had a _little_ too much to drink, and mistook my car for his friend's. Gave me quite the shock, I can tell you that, jumping into the passenger seat like that.' Napoleon leaned up and pressed a chaste kiss to Illya's lips. 'Once I recovered from the surprise, I ended up giving him a spin home. And the rest, as they say, is history.' Marcus let out a bellowing laugh.

'You are one of a kind, Solo. I- hang on, is that Jeremy Steel over there? I'm terribly sorry, we have a business matter to discuss, you understand? I'm sure I'll see you soon, Solo, and it was a pleasure to meet you, Illya.' Napoleon and Illya both shook Marcus' hand and said their goodbyes.

Illya let out a sigh of relief as he moved off. That had been entertaining, to say the least, seeing this Napoleon. He was charming, suave and charismatic. He oozed appeal. It made Illya all the more privileged that he had the chance to see him with all his masks down, to know he had slipped passed every shield and seen the real Napoleon Solo. Seeing Napoleon noticed him staring, he coughed hastily.

'I need distraction,' Illya muttered, refocusing his attention the side door. Napoleon gave a low hum in acknowledgement. He let his gaze drift across the room before fixating on the bar.

'I have an idea. Get ready to move.' Napoleon murmured in reply. He cast an incorrigible smirk at Illya. 'This whole spy business is rather fun. We should do this more often. Our own little date night.' Illya groaned.

'No, Napoleon.' Illya stated firmly, his tone brooking no room for argument. Napoleon clapped him on the shoulder.

'You're absolutely right; we should definitely talk about it later.' Before Illya had the chance to argue further, Napoleon was gone, slipping into the crowd. Illya watched him eagle-eyed as Napoleon drifted to the bar. Catching Illya's eye, he cast him a broad smile. What happened next, happened so fast Illya nearly missed it.

Tossing a flirtatious wink at a young blonde man, Napoleon at the same moment, gave a quick smack to the ass of a drunken idiot wobbling at the bar, rudely clicking his fingers at the bartender. In that same second, Napoleon was moving again, vanishing into the crowd.

Illya stood stunned as the drunken moron swung around. His eyes fell upon the blonde man, in the process of returning the saucy wink to Napoleon. Outraged, the drunk raised his fist and struck the blonde right in the nose. There was a harsh crack, followed by a violent spurt of crimson blood. The blonde man, too angry to pause for a moment, returned the punch with a swift knee in the crotch. The two men fell upon each other in a vicious flurry of punches. The quartet trailed off, the crowd stood absolutely stunned and, Illya noticed out of the corner of his eye, the guard by the side door abandoned his post to break up the fight.

Trusting Napoleon, Illya began to move without delay. He kept one eye peeled on his little pup, as he bobbed and weaved against the insatiably curious crowd. The two met at the door, Napoleon beaming with an irascible smirk. Illya found himself responding with a fond grin. Napoleon pressed down the emergency bar, presenting the door open for Illya.

'After you, darling.' Illya rolled his eyes but obliged. Slipping through the door, he felt Napoleon duck in behind him, one hand resting on his shoulder. Napoleon eased the door closed behind them, cutting out the shrieks coming from the gaudy function room. Illya caught his wrist and yanked him close. Napoleon leaned in to press a kiss to Illya's lips. Illya jerked his head away.

'That was either genius or idiocy.' Illya scolded. Napoleon stole a kiss anyway, brushing his lips against Illya's jaw.

'That is a finer line than you'd think. It worked, Illya. Just relax.'

Illya grimaces but let it go. Motioning at Napoleon to follow, Illya began to creep down the deserted hallway.

'Office is at end of hall. We will have no more than four minutes to locate file before guard passes again.' He slipped Napoleon a USB. 'The moment we are inside, plug this into computer. It will download backdoor for U.N.C.L.E. into his network. U.N.C.L.E. techs will find passcode to safe.' Napoleon twirled the USB between his nimble fingers.

'This is so very James Bond.' He remarked. Though he was clearly trying to hide it under his usual mask of suave indifference, Illya could see the childlike excitement bubbling behind those intelligent blue eyes. It was incredibly endearing; not that Illya would ever confess to thinking it.

The office door was locked, unsurprisingly. Illya slipped a lock-pick set out of his jacket and set to work on the lock. Napoleon watched him work with open curiosity, and another less obvious emotion lurking just behind that.

'Will you teach me how to do that?' He asked suddenly. Illya's brows shot up and stopped for a second to stare at Napoleon.

'Why would you wish to know how to pick locks?' Illya watched Napoleon's eyes darken for a moment, before he brushed it off and attempted to ease the tension.

'It may prove to be a useful trick, what with all the trouble you seem to involve me in.' He chuckled weakly, shrugging.

Illya averted his attention back to the lock and continued to fiddle with the mechanism. He had a sinking feeling that he knew exactly what trouble Napoleon was referring to and why being able to pick locks would be of interest to him. Filing away the fact that he and Napoleon needed to have a _conversation_ about Owens in the near future, (how Illya hated _conversations_ ), he unlocked the door with an audible click.

Illya inched the door open, tucking away his lock-pick set. Groping along the wall, he flicked the light switch. The dark room was bathed in a warm glow. Illya gestured towards the desk, and Napoleon nodded in understanding.

He flicked the cap of the USB drive free to plug it into the laptop sitting open on the desk. Snow white clouds lazily drifted against the pale blue background. Napoleon leaned over the desk, the black fabric of his tux tight against his ass teasing Illya. Grimacing against the faint pooling of heat low in his abdomen, he was drawn to the single painting spanning the length of the wall behind the desk.

'If you were to hide safe,' Illya scoffed, 'could you choose more obvious place?' Napoleon raised an eyebrow and studied the painting with a critical eye.

'I don't know. This absolutely hideous monstrosity makes me want to avert my eyes and pretend that wall doesn't exist.' Illya snorted at Napoleon's response. Napoleon moved around the desk to help Illya heft the painting off the wall and lower it to the floor. The dull steel door of a safe and a keypad greeted them.

'Now what?' Napoleon asked. Illya shrugged, checking his watch. Three minutes, four seconds.

'We need U.N.C.L.E. to send passcode.' He replied. Napoleon raised an eyebrow.

'So we just wait?' He asked, doubt lacing his tone. Illya's fingers twitched impatiently. Two minutes, fifty-six seconds.

'You have better plan?' Napoleon eyed the safe thoughtfully.

'I might.'

'Oh, really. And what's that?' Napoleon hummed.

'Unless I'm mistaken, this is a MBG Nova 7010 model. Used mostly by hotels. Some smaller gallery use them for storing valuables they need to access quickly, in case of fire for example.' Illya shrugged; apparently, he didn't see the relevance to any of this. Napoleon studied the keypad. 'And because of that,' Napoleon's fingers danced across the pad, finally coming to hold his thumb and forefinger down on the 1 and 2 keys at the same time, 'this model comes with an emergency unlock.' Illya was stunned as the locked safe door opened with a click.

'Where did you learn to do this?' Napoleon shrugged, swinging the door open.

'I have a friend over in an art insurance company. He told me galleries who use this model end up paying way more in insurance than a more secure safe would cost because of this standard failsafe. It's interesting, actually-.'

Illya's lips crushed against Napoleon's, cutting off his last remark. Napoleon groaned into the kiss, hands stretching up to card through Illya's hair. Illya let the kiss draw out for a moment, before reluctantly pulling back. He raised his wrist and glanced at his watch. One minute, twenty-seven.

'We must hurry, my little гений (genius).' Napoleon sighed in a dramatic fashion.

'Spoilsport,' he grumbled. He waved a hand towards the gaping safe door. 'Be my guest.'

Illya rummaged methodically through the contents of the safe. Extracting a beige file, he gave it a cursory look, confirming that it was indeed the file in question. He slipped it into the folds of his suit jacket and eased the safe door shut with a click. He turned to Napoleon, who was grinning like the cat that got the cream.

'Looks like mission accomplished.' Illya returned the grin with a fond roll of his eyes. The discrete earpiece tucked unobtrusively behind his ear crackled to life.

'Agent Kuryakin, the code to the safe-' Illya muted the earpiece and checked his watch. Fifty-eight seconds. UNCLE were getting lax. Illya should mention that to Waverly. With a smooth tug, he yanked the USB free of the laptop and slipped it into a pocket. Napoleon trailed after him as the two left the office, pausing to switch off the overhead light. Illya hastily bent to lock the door after them, fumbling with the tools slightly. Eventually, he heard a satisfying click, signalling the door was again locked.

As the two made to creep back to the party, the thud of heavy footsteps alerted them to the imminent arrival of a guard. Illya panicked, his eyes darting along the corridor, examining his options. They were limited; the nearest possible exit being at the far end of the corridor, from which the guard approached. Goals raced through Illya's head. Disarm the guard. Escape with the file. Protect Napoleon.

Napoleon, who at the moment, knew exactly what had to be done. His hand latched onto the lapels of Illya's jacket and he shoved him against the hall, hard. Illya let out a puff of air in surprise. In a single smooth motion, Napoleon slid to his knees and began to fiddle with Illya's belt.

'Napoleon!' Illya hissed. His larger hands folded over Napoleon's and he tried to wrench them away. 'What do you think you are doing!?' Napoleon shook off Illya's grasp and before Illya could stop him again, he had the trousers opened. He flashed a grin up at Illya, but his eyes were serious.

'I'm showing you how smart this mouth is. Trust me.' With that, Napoleon yanked Illya's cock free of his trousers and took it all in a single breath, right down to the base. Illya gasped at the sensation, panic and arousal battling furiously. His fingers curled into Napoleon's hair; he didn't know was he trying to push him away or pull him closer. The barest hint of teeth scraped at his length, and Illya bucked up.

'Hey! What are- oh fuck!'

At that startled shout, Napoleon let Illya's cock slip free, tumbling backwards with an exaggerated flail. Illya fumbled to cover himself, hastily stuffing his half-hard dick back in his pants. The security guard's face was flushed, his eyes studying a suddenly fascinating spot of beige wall.

'What do you two think you're doing!?' He exclaimed, still avoiding looking at them. Napoleon clambered to his feet, swaying a bit.

'You know, I don't think this is the men's room.' He slurred, sounding slightly surprised. He suddenly collapsed against Illya, clinging to him like an octopus. Illya wrapped an arm around his waist, staggering at the sudden weight. Napoleon was by no means a small man. In any way. Illya threw a rueful smile at the other man.

'I'm sorry. We got lost, looking for somewhere… private.'

'Yeah, well this area is off-limits to guests.'

'Oh, I'm very sorry. I think I need to get him home anyway.' The other man began to nod frantically as Napoleon nestled further into Illya, his lips mouthing along Illya's jaw.

'Yeah, I think so too. C'mon, I'll show you out.' The guard began to usher Illya and Napoleon down the corridor. He led them all the way back to the function room and helped them slip out the door unobtrusively. Illya couldn't believe it. The security guard was essentially facilitating their escape.

Napoleon had the self-control to wait until they were clear of the Elysian tower's lobby before releasing his iron-clad hold on Illya and bursting out in laughter.

'Did you see his face?' He wheezed, gasping for breath. 'I thought he was going to catch fire, he was so red!' Illya responded by grasping the shaking Napoleon by the nape of his neck and shoving him headfirst into the backseat of the taxi that had just drawn up alongside them. He shot what he hoped was a reassuring smile at the concerned cab driver and slid in next to Napoleon. Napoleon, who was sprawled against the far door of the taxi. Illya rattled off their address to the cab driver and slammed the door shut.

'Lighten up, Illya. Everything's fine, it worked.' Napoleon cajoled, prodding a stiff Illya. 'What's wrong with you?' Illya leaned in close, grasping Napoleon by the chin and turning his head. His lips brushed Napoleon's ear. He could feel Napoleon shivering slightly with anticipation.

'You, my Маленький щенок (Little pup), still have job to finish.' He dragged Napoleon's hand to rest on his bulging crotch. He was still half-hard after Napoleon's little stunt in the hallway. Napoleon licked his lips, showing the barest flicker of tongue. Illya kept one eye peeled on the cab driver as he nipped at Napoleon's ear. Napoleon gave a full body shudder, and suppressed a throaty moan.

'When we are home, you will suck me off.' Illya promised, his murmur sending Napoleon's pulse racing. He could feel it thrumming as his thumb rubbed small circles at the hollow of his throat. 'You will suck me off until I come down your throat and you'll swallow it all for me, won't you, my Napoleon? Like a good щенок.'

A quick glance down showed Napoleon was growing hard. 'And after I come, if you beg prettily enough, maybe I let you come too.' Another peek at the cab driver; he couldn't have looked more uninterested. Illya let his other hand drift up to Napoleon's hair, burying his long fingers in their silky locks. 'Or maybe I don't. Maybe I play with you, keep you on edge until I am hard once more. Maybe after I fuck you, I let you come. Maybe.'

Napoleon was panting now, biting his lip to hold back moans. Illya gave Napoleon's hair a sharp tug. Napoleon gasped indecently, giving an obscene groan. The cab driver's shoulders stiffened and he cast an alarmed glance in the rear-view mirror. Illya allowed his lips to form a smug grin. Releasing his grip on Napoleon, he slid away from him, taking pleasure from his soft whine.

'But that is when we get home.' Illya declared, staring out of the window into the dark. He gave a low chuckle at Napoleon's low grumbling.

'I found the devil.' Napoleon bemoaned, trying to will away his growing bulge. 'I found him in a lover.' Sometimes, Napoleon was convinced that Illya was literally his own personal devil, sent to drag him down to hell.

(Much later, as Illya was fucking him into the mattress, Napoleon had to admit; if this was hell, perhaps he didn't mind the fall.)

* * *

 **So, thank you all for reading! Hopefully, the next chapter won't have so long a wait!**

 **Fun fact: The Elysian tower is actually the tallest building in Ireland, based in my home city of Cork (represent!) By tallest building, I mean it has like 27 floors or something.**

 **Love me some comments so don't be shy!**


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